


Academy of Deduction

by HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Boarding School, Fluff, High School, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Kidlock, M/M, School, Teenlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson/pseuds/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson isn't ready for his first day at school. But the people he meets will stay with him- for better or for worse- until it's time to attend a new boarding school in Grimpen. Perhaps boarding school is more interesting than it seems (or maybe that's just his dorm-mate) and the adventures he drags him on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prequel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Academy of Deduction is written collaboratively by both Holmes and Not Quite Watson.

John fidgeted nervously, and looked up at Harry. The door to his new classroom seemed impossibly large, and he could hear the voices of the other children inside. Harry had hung up his jacket for him on the shiny new peg with his name- at least Harry said it was his name- written on a piece of paper stuck below it.

He wondered if the other children could read already. They had been at school for a year and a term now, but this would be his first day. Harry said it was his first of a million days. That sounded bad.

"- And try not to fight with the other kids, John." Harry advised. She looked bored, and was bobbing on the balls of her feet, eager to get away.

"Hey, Harry!" A voice called from the other end of the corridor. John looked up to see who it was, and saw Harry's best friend Clara waving enthusiastically.  
"Good luck John!" With that she gave him a gentle shove towards the door. John tripped on the hem of his new- and far too long- school trousers, and stumbled into the door, which swung open at his touch.

He landed in an untidy heap on the floor. He lifted his head to find a classroom full of kids staring at him in silence. John got to his feet, ears burning, and stared at his shiny new shoes in quiet terror.

There was a slight rocking sound from the other side of the room, and everyone's heads turned to see who was making it. A tall, thin boy with curly dark hair was perched precariously on a chair, wobbling as he tried to balance a lemon on top of the whiteboard.

John temporarily forgot his embarrassment as he stared in confusion at his new classmate.

"The Lemon is in play." John jumped as an unfamiliar voice spoke from beside him. He turned to see a boy, about the same height as him, with a smile on his face. "It's a game we play," he continued, pointing at the lemon, which was now sitting on top of the board. "We try to place the lemon in plain sight without Mr Lindenberg noticing it." John nodded uncertainly and the boy carried on. "We were on a streak before the break- almost three weeks without him seeing it. It's a school record." He boasted. He held out his hand. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

John smiled, and shook Jim's hand hesitantly. "John Watson." He was a little taken aback by his seeming acceptance.

John glanced around at the other children, who were now chatting amongst themselves. They seemed to have forgotten all about him. He saw that the curly haired boy who had placed the lemon on top of the board had retreated into the corner. He was reading, John stared in amazement at the book- tiny writing he couldn't even hope to understand.

"That's Sherlock." Jim said helpfully. "He doesn't have friends." John frowned, not lifting his gaze from the book in Sherlock's hands.

"Why not?" he asked distractedly. Jim shrugged.

"He's a little… different." 

Of course the teacher chose this moment to enter and all the conversations stuttered gently to a close. All the kids took their seats, leaving John standing awkwardly at the front of the room. He scanned the desks for Jim, who nodded to the seat beside him. John hurried over and slid gratefully into the offered chair.

John breathed a sigh of relief. He looked towards the teacher and noticed Sherlock sitting alone at the table in front of him, still clutching his book. John was about to mention this to Jim when Mr. Lindenberg spoke.

"Is John Watson here?" he asked, peering at the rows of students, trying to see an unfamiliar face. John raised his hand uncertainly, feeling the stares of the entire classroom focused on him- other than Sherlock, who was staring intently at the wall as if it had sprouted legs.

The teacher smiled welcomingly. "Any relation to Harry Watson?" he asked in interest. John nodded. "Oh god, not another one." Mr. Lindenberg muttered under his breath. "Well, good to have you all back." He said briskly, making his way to the whiteboard as he spoke. "Lets see what we remember about spelling."

John nudged Jim. Having got his attention, John whispered quietly. "I can't read yet." John confided. Jim raised his eyebrows, but then his face dimpled and he smiled.

"Lets see what I can do."

\--

John followed Jim out the door as the bell rang for break.

"So what do you think of Bergie?" Jim asked.

"Who?" John frowned, trying to remember a 'Bergie' in Jim's brief introduction to his new classmates.

"Mr. Lindenberg." Jim clarified. "Everyone calls him Bergie."

"Uh. He seems nice?" John grabbed his coat and they stepped outside. There was a cool breeze blowing, so John shrugged his coat on over his fluffy cream jumper.

There was a shout and John spun round to see a crowd of people gathered around two figures. John ran over and shoved through the crowd in time to see a stocky, sandy-haired boy knock Sherlock to the ground.

Sherlock started to struggle to his feet, but the boy- who John now recognised as Sebastian- lunged forward and kicked Sherlock. He crumpled back to the ground, letting out a quiet yelp.

John rushed forward and placed himself firmly between the two boys. John glared defiantly at Sebastian, daring him to continue the attack. Sebastian blinked at him, astonished, as if no one had ever stood up for Sherlock before. Sebastian looked over his shoulder at the crowd that had gathered, all with looks of equal astonishment on their faces. He shrugged and turned around, disappearing into the crowd, which dispersed, leaving John standing protectively over Sherlock.

"You alright?" John questioned, reaching his hand out concernedly. Before Sherlock could reply, Jim appeared at his side holding a dark blue scarf. He handed it over wordlessly and Sherlock grabbed it, wrapping it hurriedly round his neck. Sherlock ignored John's outstretched hand and got to his feet in one fluid movement. He started to walk away.

"What, aren't you going to say thank you?" John called after him.

"What for?" he turned back to face them, frowning.

"For helping you!" Jim chipped in.

"I don't need help."

"You sure about that?" John asked pointedly, gesturing to the grazed knees and split lip that Sherlock now supported.

"From a boy who can't even stop his own father beating him and one who's clearly only standing up for me to stay in my big brother's good books?"

John reeled, hurt. "How did you know about my dad?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, disdain obvious. Jim grabbed John's shoulder and spun him round. "He's not worth it, John." Jim said pointedly, steering John firmly away from Sherlock.

John could feel his ears burning and the urge to turn around and punch Sherlock's knowing smirk right off his face. Jim led John to the swing set and sat him down, taking the other swing for himself.

John scuffed his shoes into the woodchips, avoiding eye contact.

"If it's any consolation," Jim began, "he does that to everyone."

John ground his toe into the chips, swinging slowly. He stared at his feet, sighing. There was a pause, and then John spoke hesitantly.

"What did Sherlock mean? About you trying to impress his brother?"

"You mustn't believe everything he says." Jim smiled. "What he said about your dad wasn't true, was it?"

John was silent, and Jim looked up, concerned. "Just promise me." John said after a moment, voice quiet. "Just promise me you won't ever hurt me like that. Please."

Jim's eyes widened in earnest. "Promise."


	2. Year Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sherlock and John find out they're sharing a dorm at their new boarding school in Grimpen. John has to forgive and forget, and Sherlock needs to learn what it is to have a friend.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Academy of Deduction is written collaboratively by both Holmes and Not Quite Watson.

The car pulled into the long driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. Harry yanked sharply on the steering wheel and the car slid into a parking space, causing John to temporarily lose control of his suitcase which promptly fell on him.  
  
“Here we are then!” Harry said, pulling the keys out of the ignition and peering worriedly round the suitcase at John. “You alright?”  
  
John nodded distractedly, shoving the suitcase into the space beside him. He glanced out the window at the towering grey building. He heard his sister slam the car door, but continued to gaze at the school that was to be his home away from home for the next seven years.  
  
Harry threw open the boot. “Out you get.” She called. John attempted a brave smile and climbed out. “Don’t forget your rugby kit.” Harry reminded him, sliding back into the driver’s seat.  
  
“Give mum my love.” John shouted, dragging his trunk out of the boot. “I’ll phone you later.” John promised, picking up his kit in one hand and his case in the other. He stepped out of the way and Harry reversed out, giving him a small wave as she disappeared down the driveway.  
  
John jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Need some help?” John turned round. An older boy with light brown hair and a friendly smile was gesturing to John’s trunk.  
  
“Thanks.” John mumbled shyly, catching sight of the sports captain’s badge pinned proudly to the boy’s collar.  
  
“I’m Greg.” He said conversationally, bending down and picking up one end of the trunk.  
  
“John Watson.” John smiled, shifting his rugby kit to the other arm, and grabbing the other end of his trunk.  
  
They dumped the trunk by a pile of others with a sigh of relief. “Lestrade!” John looked up to see a tall boy striding towards them. Greg straightened quickly, grinning nervously at the approaching figure.  
  
“Professor Richardson is looking for you.” He said, peering absent-mindedly down at a slip of paper in his hand.  
  
“Professor Richardson?” Greg frowned incredulously. “Oh, you mean Doug!”  
  
“Yes,” the older boy replied irritably. He tapped his prefect’s badge importantly. “I’m a prefect now, Lestrade. No time for nicknames.” Greg raised an eyebrow amusedly, nodded at John and walked off in the opposite direction.  
  
“Mycroft Holmes.” The prefect said, stretching a hand out for John to shake. John shook it resolutely.  
  
“John.”  
  
Mycroft scanned the sheet he was holding. “Watson?” he questioned distractedly. John nodded. “You’re in room… 221. First floor, second door on the right.” Mycroft pointed up the stairs, then, glancing back at his sheet, grimaced.  
  
“Dear god, you’re rooming with my little brother. Do keep an eye on him. Best of luck.” John’s face took on a confused look.  
  
“Hang on,” John said, comprehension dawning. “Holmes. Holmes. I’m not sharing with Sherlock, am I?” Then John realized he was talking to Sherlock’s brother and looked up apologetically. “Sorry.” He muttered.  
  
Mycroft met his eyes with an equally apologetic look. “I’m afraid so. My deepest condolences.”  
  
John grabbed his case and rugby kit, half smiling, and made his way up the steps in search of room 221.

\--

A gust of wind tugged at the sail of the boat, and the boat rocked precariously. Salty sea spray stung John’s eyes as he squinted out across the waves, searching desperately for the half-drowned figure. The boat tipped and John cried out, shying away from the wave that rushed over the edge of the boat. One wave could send him into the cold depths forever. And yet, and yet he needed- no, he had to- save his dad.  
  
There was a cry from behind John, and he spun around in panic, nearly losing his footing on the slippery wooden floor. Two hands clutched the side of the boat, knuckles white. John peered over the side of the boat and saw his father’s face below.  
  
“Help me John!” he screamed, words swept away by the wind. John tried to step forwards, but he couldn’t seem to move his feet. His stomach churned with the waves. He seemed so powerless and small in comparison to the waves which threatened to sweep him away. Could do so and drown him in seconds, just like they had his mother.  
  
His father screamed again, but this time his plea never reached John’s ears. John’s mind cleared and he stumbled forward, falling to his knees by the side of the boat. Just as he reached to pull his father out of the churning waters and to safety, his hands lost grip and slipped away. John screamed as his father slipped under the waves, leaving him alone.  
  
Leaning as far as he dared, John looked over the side of the boat, trying to glimpse his father before he disappeared. Instead he saw his own face, pale and lifeless, drifting under the surface.

He jerked awake with a gasp. Moonlight lit up the dorm room with a sort of subtle mystery. A thin figure with black hair was curled up on the window sill, staring absentmindedly at the night sky. He looked up and met John’s gaze.  
  
John tried to control his breathing, though his heart was still pounding. Sherlock- for it had to be him- broke their eye contact to look out of the window again.  
  
“Sentiment.” the boy muttered. “It’s our downfall. Emotions. Dull.”  
  
“I wasn’t having a nightmare,” John protested weakly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
  
“It’s okay.” There was a pause. “I get them too.”John looked up in surprise. The Sherlock he remembered never showed weakness, and he certainly didn’t console people.  
  
“Really?” John asked, a little louder than he meant to. One of the other boys stirred in his sleep and rolled over. John shifted nervously. He didn’t want to go back to sleep for fear that his nightmares would return.  
  
“I find a stroll in the cool night air helps clear my mind. Not that I sleep any more.” Sherlock said as if John hadn’t spoken, getting to his feet and shrugging on a long blue dressing gown. “Care to accompany me?”  
  
“Uh… Alright, then.” John whispered hesitantly, swinging his legs out of bed. He tucked his feet into his slippers and stood up. Glancing at Sherlock’s dressing gown, John grabbed his wooly jumper and pulled it on.  
  
John followed Sherlock out of their dorm and down the stairs. He struggled to keep up with his roommate’s long strides as he made his way down the corridor.  
  
He caught up to Sherlock as he began to crunch along the gravel path that lead to the school’s rugby pitch. John felt slightly awkward in the silence between them. He wanted to ask where they were going, but Sherlock looked so lost in thought that he didn’t want to interrupt.  
  
Abruptly Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and tugged him off the path and up the hill. At the top of the hill Sherlock paused, then sat down.  
  
John watched Sherlock for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Shall we head back then?” he asked quietly, fidgeting with his jumper. Sherlock showed no sign of having heard him. John repeated his question, slightly louder this time. Sherlock only leant forward and steepled his fingers under his chin, still not acknowledging John’s words.  
  
“Right then.” John sighed, and began to make his way back towards the school and the comfort of his bed. At the bottom of the hill he paused and looked back.  
  
“You coming?” he called. Sherlock didn’t respond. With a groan John made his way back up the hill and yanked Sherlock to his feet. “Bed.” he said firmly.  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioningly, but didn’t resist. John pulled Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders and began to lead him back to the dorms.  
  
“It’s a good job there’s nobody watching,” John grumbled. “People might talk.”  
  
“People do little else.” Sherlock smirked, catching John’s eye. John chuckled quietly and nodded his agreement.  
  
John heaved Sherlock onto his bed then collapsed into his own. The clock on the wall told him it was just after three in the morning. Better try to get some sleep now, he thought. It was unlikely he’d get enough to be ready for lessons, but it was worth a try.

\--

By the time John rolled out of bed the next morning Sherlock had gone. He looked out for him at breakfast, and eventually spotted him sitting at the end of a crowded table. John sat down opposite him and proceeded to eat his breakfast. Sherlock didn’t seem to be eating anything.  
  
“First day then!” a boy said gamely, sliding into the seat next to John. “How exciting!”  
  
Sherlock was silent, staring into space again. John swallowed quickly. “Can’t wait.” he said, swigging his juice.  
  
“I’m Sebastian.” he grinned.  
  
“John.”  
  
Sherlock seemed to be pointedly ignoring Sebastian. John kicked him under the table, but he merely glared, then returned to his thoughts. “This is Sherlock.” he said hastily. Sebastian’s smile cooled somewhat.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes.” he said coldly, turning away from John and Sherlock.  
  
John closed his eyes. He’d almost forgotten the effect Sherlock had on other people. The deductions. He remembered how long it had taken him to forgive Sherlock for how he’d hurt him. How many people had Sherlock pissed off already? 

\--

“Turn to page 394.” The teacher said briskly, handing out the last of the textbooks. The class scrambled for their pens and opened their books to a diagram of the skeleton. Half way through answering the first question John noticed Sherlock hadn’t moved.  
  
“Aren’t you going to do the work?” John frowned.  
  
“Boring.” Sherlock declared.  
  
The teacher turned her head, clearly having heard Sherlock’s remark. “Mr Holmes.” she said, making her way over to their desk. “What seems to be the problem?”  
  
“I learnt the names of every bone in the human body when I was three.” Sherlock said impatiently. “Got bored in the holidays. Mycroft was ignoring me.”  
  
“Every bone?” The teacher narrowed her eyes. “Alright then. What’s the name of the smallest bone in the body?”  
  
“The States Articulates- commonly known as the stirrup bone.” Sherlock said, sounding as if he’d said it a million times before. “The largest is the femur, which is located in the upper leg.”  
  
The teacher looked vaguely surprised, but she’d clearly encountered the Holmes boys before. She raised an eyebrow. “Well Mr. Holmes, I still expect you to partake in our class as an active participant.” 

\--

John was exhausted. If it weren’t sufficient trouble to have to look after Sherlock bloody Holmes all day, he actually had to cope with homework. He shoved open the door to his dorm and found Mycroft perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.  
  
“Mr Watson.” Mycroft gave a businesslike smile.  
  
“Mycroft? What are you doing in here?”  
  
“I came to have a word with you. It’s about Sherlock.”  
  
John sighed deeply. If Sherlock had gone and got himself into trouble again he was just about ready to give up. He’d probably played a prank on Mycroft or something- why else would he have come to John rather than the Headmaster?  
  
“What’s he done now?” John asked, only half expecting a straight answer.  
  
“That’s what I came to ask you.” Mycroft said. John frowned slightly, not quite understanding what the he meant.  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“I haven’t heard anything of him for nearly a week.”  
  
“Well… No. He hasn’t- I’ve been trying to keep him out of trouble. Why do you care?”  
  
“I worry about him. Constantly.” Mycroft admitted, a slightly pained expression on his face. John couldn’t help but smile slightly. Mycroft stood up, straightening his tie.  
  
“I’d be very grateful if you could keep me updated on Sherlock’s activities.” he continued, looking down on John, who was suddenly very conscious of the age and power difference between them. John frowned.  
  
“You mean spy on him.” John stated, looking Mycroft in the eye. He returned the gaze slightly sheepishly.  
  
“If you wish to put it that way, yes.” John folded his arms and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Nothing indiscreet.” he assured John.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Could you at least consider-”  
  
“I am not going to spy on your brother.” John said flatly. “He’s my friend.” Mycroft looked astonished.  
  
“You’re very loyal, very quickly.” one corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched up in a mocking smile and one eyebrow rose accusingly.  
  
The door creaked open behind John. He turned to see who had entered and was pleasantly surprised to recognize Greg Lestrade. He went slightly pink when he spotted Mycroft and went to shut the door.  
  
“Come in Gregory.” Mycroft called as the door clicked shut. Greg came back in awkwardly. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. “What is it?” Mycroft asked gently.  
  
“I need to talk to John.” Greg announced, “You’re late for rugby try-outs.” he continued, pulling a hand through his hair. “You better get down there before I kick you out prematurely.” He smiled to soften the blow, then turned to Mycroft.  
  
“Douggie’s looking for you.” Mycroft looked confused.  
  
“Why did he send you?” he asked, frowning.  
  
“He said if you’d listen to anyone, it’d be me.” Greg said admitted quietly, not looking Mycroft in the eye. John smirked. He’d met Professor Richardson- or Douggie- and he was very good at matchmaking.  
  
Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. “Well what does he want?” Mycroft didn’t get it, John realized incredulously.  
  
“He wants to meet you at lunch- something about a Mr. Spair Van Kees?” Greg fidgeted. John fought a smirk.  
  
“Fine.” Mycroft sighed, and stormed out of the room. “See you after lunch,Greg.”  
  
The moment the door closed, John’s eyebrows shot up. “Well.” he grinned. Greg went red. “You and Mycroft?” Greg shook his head, distractedly pinning and repinning his sports captain’s badge.  
  
“No.”  
  
John laughed. “But you’d like it to be.” It wasn’t a question, but Greg still nodded, resigned.  
  
“He doesn’t see it.”  
  
“No.” John mused. “You’ll have to do something about that.”  
  
Greg suddenly shook his head, realising that he’d just admitted his feelings for Mycroft to a year seven student.  
  
“You. Rugby tryouts. Now.” Greg’s voice was suddenly severe, but John could tell it was just to cover the look of embarrassment on his face. He left the room quickly. John grabbed his rugby kit and followed behind, smiling to himself.

\--

“Try again, Herr Watson.” Professor Shipwright said, tapping the whiteboard exasperatedly. “Conjugation of the verb ‘sein’, present tense.”  
  
“Uhh… Sein. Seinem. Umm. Seid?”  
  
The Professor groaned. “No. Well perhaps Herr Holmes can shed some light on the subject?”  
  
“Bin, bist, Ist, sind, seid, sind.” Sherlock recited monotonously, without looking up from his desk.  
  
“Oh. Well done.” Professor Shipwright said, looking as if his faith in the year sevens’ german skills had been restored.  
  
At that moment the door flew open and crashed into the wall with a bang. The class’ heads turned to see a sopping wet and rather furious Prefect standing in the doorframe.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft said dangerously, “A word. Now. And bring Mr. Watson.”  
  
John got out of his seat and followed Sherlock out of the room, amused to see that a single lock of hair had escaped from Mycroft’s usually rigid style. Greg stood behind him, arms folded, unsuccessfully trying to fight off a grin.  
  
Mycroft led them down a hallway, silently fuming, and into an empty classroom. Lestrade followed them in and closed the door behind them. “Have a seat.” Mycroft looked at John expectantly.  
  
“I don’t want to sit down.”  
  
Mycroft shrugged and turned to Sherlock. “Judging by your smirk, I assume you know why you’re here.”  
  
“No actually.” Sherlock said, perfectly blasé. “That was more to do with the fact that you’re soaking wet.”  
  
“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t suit.”  
  
“How could it have been me?” Sherlock demanded. “I was in German.”  
  
“Sherlock.” Lestrade groaned.  
  
“Nonetheless.” Mycroft continued disapprovingly. “It’s of national importance.”  
  
“Oh, stop being such a drama queen, Mycroft.” Sherlock sighed, plucking irritatedly at a bit of fluff on his school blazer.  
  
“Don’t make me send you to see the school councellor, you know how it upsets Mummy.”  
  
“It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.” Sherlock spat. John cleared his throat loudly and both the brothers looked his way. Greg shuffled awkwardly by the door, suddenly very interested in the wall by John’s head.  
  
“If I’m not interrupting a family matter,” John said sarcastically, “I don’t see how he could have done it.” John gestured to Mycroft’s sodden form. “I was with him all through German.”  
  
“You’d be surprised.” Mycroft leaned back against the teacher’s desk, resting on one hand. “He has something of a network in the school.”  
  
“I’m telling you, Mycroft,” Sherlock insisted, “I had nothing to do with this.”  
  
Mycroft gave a disbelieving snort and a stern glare, slicking back his hair with his spare hand. He put his hand on the doorknob before turning to face the boys again. “Well in that case, Sherlock, I’m sure Councellor Pitt-Goddard will be delighted to see you and Mr. Watson. Cheerio!” And with that he gave them a forced smile and stepped out into the corridor. Lestrade went out after him, pausing only to whisper thanks.  
  
The door clicked shut behind him. Sherlock’s smirk became a full blown grin. “I rather think Greg likes what the water did to Mycroft’s suit.”  
  
John spun around to face Sherlock. “Sherlock. Why the HELL did you do that?”  
  
“I thought it was rather genius myself. Untraceable.” Sherlock grinned, then mumbled. “Mycroft is annoyingly perceptive.”  
  
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” John seethed. “Oh I remember. ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT.”  
  
‘You’ve got to admit it was funny.” Sherlock smiled, unperturbed by John’s rage. “I doubted you’d want to get involved.”  
  
“So it was you?”  
  
“Of course it me!” Sherlock looked insulted. “But, like I said, I didn’t think you’d want to be part of this.” John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock was right, he’d have said no, but still.  
  
“Well I am now.” John kicked a chair, annoyed.  
  
“I believe we’ve got a counselling session to attend.” Sherlock said briskly, ignoring John’s anger. He disappeared out of the room. John bit back several choice expletives before taking a deep breath and running after him.

\--

“Mr. Pitt-Goddard.” Sherlock said as he swept into the councillor’s office.  
  
“Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?” The councellor’s eyes flicked between John and Sherlock, a mischievous grin on his face.  
  
“That would be me.”  
  
“Nice work!” The councellor held his hand up for a high five.  
  
Sherlock ignored the gesture. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Well I mean- well done! Taking him down a notch. I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”  
  
Sherlock blinked.  
  
John butted in. “You wanted to throw a senior prefect in the swimming pool?”

“Among other things.” Mr. Pitt-Goddard’s eyes glinted and he smiled devilishly. “Tea?”  
  
“So you’re not going to make us stay for a counselling session?” John questioned hopefully.  
  
“Well, you can hang around here if you want. Otherwise I’m out of a job. Don’t get many students down here, actually. Apparently not many people are brave enough to- what did you say? Throw him in the swimming pool? I thought he looked a bit bedraggled.”  
  
“Well technically, we didn’t-”  
  
“Sherlock didn’t.” interrupted John.  
  
“Well technically I didn’t,” Sherlock emphasised, then continued “I didn’t throw him in the pool.”  
  
“Details, details.” Pitt-Goddard waved Sherlock’s protests away. “So are you staying or not?” He waved a couple of teabags at them.  
  
John glanced round to Sherlock for approval, but the other boy was busy surveying the contents of the bookcase. “Uhhh… Yeah.” He grinned. “Rather this than German or Physics.”  
  
The councellor winked conspiratorially. “Right you are. So, how did you do it?”

\--

John drained the last of his tea and stood up, wiping his lips. “We’d better be off. Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock nodded purposefully, setting down his mug as well. “Yes. We’ve got part two of the plan to attend to.”  
  
“You boys…” Mr. Pitt-Goddard clapped Sherlock on the back heartily as they made their way towards the door. Sherlock flinched visibly and glared at the counsellor, who didn’t seem to notice and waved them out the door.  
  
“See you soon!” Pitt-Goddard called, and John turned back and waved half heartedly. The door closed, and they began to make their way back down the corridor.  
  
“He was strangely tolerable.” Sherlock broke the silence. “We might have to go back and see him again.”  
  
“No, Sherlock, this isn’t going to happen again.”  
  
“Well next time I won’t get caught, of course-” He stopped as John grabbed him by the shoulders.  
  
“Sherlock, I mean it. There isn’t going to be a next time.”  
  
“Yes, but like I said, Mycroft wouldn’t know it was us-”  
  
“Us?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “You were involved to some extent.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You covered for me this morning.” Sherlock reminded him.  
  
“When you were trying to blend in with the seniors to get into the restricted section of the library.”  
  
“Did I say that?” Sherlock frowned slightly as if trying to recall their conversation this morning.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock, you did. God, I wouldn’t have helped you if I’d known you were going to try and do something so stupid.”  
  
“Exactly. I couldn’t have done it without you.”  
  
John let out an exasperated breath, releasing Sherlock’s shoulders and giving him a slight push. “Just don’t get me involved in one of your schemes again without telling me. It’s not what friends do.”  
  
“Friends?” Sherlock blinked a couple of times, sounding it out as though the word was unfamiliar.  
  
“Yes. You’re my friend, Sherlock.”  
  
“Oh- oh.”  
  
“What is it?” The anger had left John’s face and he watched Sherlock in concern. His friend looked lost and confused, an unfamiliar expression on his usually arrogant face.  
  
“It’s just- well, I’ve never had a friend before.”  
  
“Never? But you must have had friends when you were smaller. You know- kids that you like, kids that you talk to…” He trailed off when Sherlock failed to nod along. “No one?” he asked weakly, then remembered the small figure who'd sat alone in classes and read books at break times, who he'd helped to his feet only to be pushed away. No, of course he didn't have friends. Sherlock averted his eyes.  
  
“Well friends,” he nudged Sherlock, “don’t involve each other in schemes without telling each other. Just promise me you won’t do it again.”  
  
“Yes, yes.” Sherlock said absentmindedly, looking lost in thought.

There was a lot of new information to file away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a scene setter. Look forward to plot and more platonic fluff in chapter three…


	3. Year Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a mystery for Sherlock to solve, there's some dancing, and no one can put their finger on exactly what's bothering them about little Jim Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got a little bit carried away with this one! Nonetheless, we hope you enjoy reading it as much as we did writing it.

John shifted uncomfortably in his hard-backed chair and waited impatiently for the headmaster to start speaking. He glanced at Sherlock, who was busy scribbling away on his forearm in deep green ink, and sighed. A hush fell across the hall as the headmaster stepped up to the podium, shuffling his papers distractedly.

“Boys.” He took a deep breath. He paused and reached with tired resignation to rip a note off his waistcoat back, sniggers emanating from the back of the hall as he mouthed “kick me”. John looked over his shoulder to see the culprits- Carl Powers and his gang- grinning from ear to ear and laughing.

The headmaster tried again. “Boys.” He waited for the giggles to die down before continuing. “As you all know, next week on Friday we have the annual Valentine’s Day dance in conjunction with Moffat House,” Someone wolf-whistled and a new wave of giggles rippled through the crowd. “The girl’s school.”

“The usual rules apply, of course. If you want to go, you have to have a partner.” John smiled half-heartedly, already sure that the upcoming information was going to be irrelevant. He hadn’t gone to the dance last year, of course. Even if he had wanted to go along and sway to the mushy love songs, he would have had to find someone to go with, and John didn’t usually go in for that sort of thing.

“...No alcohol, and no girls in the dorm block.” The Head paused sternly. Another series of giggles, along with a cheeky comment about the head’s own love life from one of the boys, and a snort from Sherlock- who didn’t even look up from his inked forearms.

\--  
“I don’t see the point.” Sherlock complained, viciously shoving his way down the hallways after assembly. “Aside from the great opportunity to ‘play deductions’ as Mycroft puts it, it’s a complete waste of time.” John nodded his agreement, before frowning.

“What do you mean, ‘play deductions’?”

“Well, you know. Chances are at least one person’s going to want to know who their ‘anonymous’ date is.” Sherlock paused. “Well I say anonymous. It’s always quite predictable really. Dull. Actually, a couple of people asked me last year if I’d help put names to their undisclosed lovers, but I was busy researching.”

“Researching what?”

“Oh, just stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

John was slightly annoyed at this assumption on Sherlock’s part, but also surprised that he had thought about the fact that it was probably not in John’s best interests to find out exactly what he had been experimenting with at the time.

“Does that mean you might help out this year?”

“Maybe. With some of them. It depends if anything’s worth my time.”  
\--

“Boys. I think I might need your assistance.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me perfectly. I’m not saying it again.” Mycroft fidgeted uncomfortably before pacing over to the window and staring out at the rain that was pouring down in sheets.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, leaning back in his chair with a lazy air, “I’m a busy man.” John snorted, then tried to turn it into a cough- a move which both of the brothers clearly noticed. He still wasn’t sure why Mycroft had invited him along- he didn’t do anything.

“None of your usual trivia, Sherlock.”

“I don’t have time for trivia.”

John shot Sherlock a confused look. Sherlock met his eyes and grinned. “My brother is under the impression that I’ve decided to become a…”

“Detective.” Mycroft finished.

“Consulting Detective, Mycroft! There’s a difference.” Sherlock interrupted.

“So you are admitting it, then?

Sherlock scowled. “I’ll think about it.”

Mycroft sighed and turned to John. “Can you reason with him, Mr. Watson?”

John shrugged noncommittally, aware that nothing he could say would change Sherlock Holmes’ mind. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and walked over, handing Sherlock a slip of crumpled notepaper and leant back against his desk. John leaned over, trying to read it.

“What is it then?” John queried, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Is it a threat?”

“Even better.” Sherlock grinned, holding the note up so John could read the scrawled writing, “An invitation.”

Will you go to the Valentine’s dance with me? - S. A.

Again John tried to suppress a laugh, earning a disapproving if slightly embarrassed glare from Mycroft. A quick glance at Sherlock showed that he had a similar opinion of the note and was grinning openly.

Once Sherlock had managed to wipe the grin mostly off his face, he continued. “Are you absolutely sure this was addressed to you?”

“What are you implying?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Sherlock tried his best to look innocent. “It’s just, I mean, you? You’ve been invited to the valentine’s dance?”

“And your point is?”

“So what is it that you want us to do?” John asked politely.

“Find out who it is, of course. I’ve already been through the Moffat House school database and can’t find anyone-” Mycroft stopped in his tracks. “Although you don’t need to know about that.” John grinned. “Just find out.”

Sherlock stood up, stooped down, grabbed the piece of paper, and walked out of Mycroft’s new Head Boy office. John shot Mycroft a vaguely apologetic look before dashing after his friend.  
\---

Sherlock spread the note out on the table in front of him before plopping down in his chair with a smile. John paused uncertainly, hand on the back of his own chair, waiting for Sherlock to get up and run out again like he usually did.

Instead, he began to speak. “What do we have to go on?”

“Umm...” John paused, unsure of how he was meant to respond. But before he could say anything Sherlock continued.

“We have the handwriting, of course, and the paper. The initials are a clue, but…” he trailed off. “I wonder if I could borrow that microscope from the science labs?”

“What do you need that for?”

“To study the paper. Although I’m fairly sure there won’t be anything of value to deduce from it that I don’t already know… Pass me my phone. ”

“Sorry?” John asked, still frozen with his hand on his seat back.

“I said pass me my phone.”

“What can you possibly already know from the paper?” John questioned, refusing to be deterred.

“Oh, nothing much. Just their age, gender, initials and the fact that it was written by somebody in this school.”

“What? How?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s incredulous expression. “My phone.”

John sat down heavily, reached over to the other side of the table and shoved Sherlock’s phone in his general direction. “How. Do. You. Know?”

“It’s a Year Thirteen.” Sherlock stated, at if it were obvious.

John frowned in disbelief and waited for the explanation.

“Oxford paper. Not any of the cheap school-provided stuff the lower years use. Anyway, it’s clearly not from a book. It’s been pulled out of a ring binder- look at the holes. The edges of the paper are battered and bent, so it’s been in a folder far longer than the two weeks since the start of term. Which means our culprit is in their second year of a less intensive Sixth Form course. They used the same folder as last year rather than bothering to transfer all their stuff.” Sherlock paused, looking more than a little pleased with himself.

“Fine. So it’s a Year Thirteen.” John leaned forward. “What about the rest?”

“Look at the paper. There’s a slight mark on the back, dried but still smelling vaguely of…” he held the paper up to John, who gave it a hesitant sniff.

“Soap?”

“And not just any soap. Disinfectant soap, like the one in the labs.”

“The girls use soap too, you know.” John raised an eyebrow.

“And more regularly than the boys.” Sherlock muttered. “Nobody ever uses the disinfectant soap unless they have Chemistry. And if you had stopped to think about it, you would remember that in the girls’ school, Year Thirteen is in the Bio labs this term.”

There was a pause while John stared at Sherlock in mild disbelief.

“Now S.A.” He smiled. “Who’s S.A.?” Sherlock showed John his phone, now open on the school student directory. “Sam Arkin, Year Thirteen.” He stopped and scrolled a little way down. “Simon Atkinson, Year Thirteen.” He slipped his phone into his bag and got up.

John stood up and laughed. “You idiot.” He grinned affectionately. John paused and ripped a page out of his history book, grabbed a pen, and started writing. “S. A.” He scrawled the initials onto the paper. “S for Secret. A for Admirer.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked crestfallen. “Oh.”

“You got anything else?” John asked hopefully, feeling a slight pang of guilt for calling Sherlock an idiot.

“Of course.” Sherlock replied snarkily, his moment of weakness gone as quickly as it had come. "I'll explain later. Come on."

Before John could gather all his stuff, Sherlock had already left the library at some pace. He jogged to catch up, swinging his bag over his shoulder.

"Where are we going?"

"The chemistry labs. We might find something there."  
\---

"Oh." Sherlock said, rattling the door to room G7. "It's locked."

"I can see that," John replied. "What did you expect? It's Saturday."

"Is it?"

"Yes, Sherlock, it is. That's why we don't have classes today."

"But you're away on Saturdays for rugby."

"It was cancelled; it's too wet. Wait- you keep track of days by my sports schedule?"

"How can we get in?" Sherlock avoided the question.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, sometimes I do use you as my personal calendar. You're more consistent than most people," admitted Sherlock, and then quickly moved on. "Who'll have keys to this place?"

"I don't know. We could always wait until Monday," John suggested.

"No, no, I need to have solved the case before then. Mycroft won't believe that I found out so quickly." His eyes took on a devilish glint. "Then he won't be able to doubt my skills of deduction."

"Is that what this is?" John frowned. "Is this all just an excuse to show off to your older brother?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"No, no problem. It doesn't matter to me, anyway." John answered, thinking that he should have guessed Sherlock wasn't just doing Mycroft a favour. "Wait- doesn't Mycroft have keys to all the restricted areas?"

Sherlock grinned. "John Watson, you are a genius. Follow me."

John followed Sherlock back along the corridor and up the stairs to Mycroft's dorm, a big grin on his face.

When Sherlock pushed open the door to the dorm, it was empty other than Lestrade who was searching through his trunk for something.

"Greg?"

John followed Sherlock into the room.

Greg turned to see who had entered, and his slightly hopeful smile disappeared. "Sherlock. John." he greeted. "You're not meant to be up here."

"Sorry," John offered as an apology. "We came to see-"

"You." Sherlock cut him off, giving John a reassuring nod. "Mycroft received some letters from mummy this morning. You don't know where he might have put them, do you? It's just, last time she sent a letter to us I never got to read it. Even though it was addressed to both of us."

Greg gave him a sympathetic smile, obviously falling for the slight quiver in Sherlock's voice. "I think I saw him with a letter this morning. I'm sure he's not keeping them from you, he probably just forgets. He often does," Greg added with a hint of regret.

"Do you know where he is? I want to ask him if I can have the letters." Sherlock said.

Greg gave the boys a smile. "I'm not sure. He's busy at the moment. But I think I know where he keeps his letters..." He stood up, walked over to one of the beds- even John could tell it belonged to Mycroft- and pulled a large bunch of keys out from under the mattress.

John glanced at Sherlock, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod, and stepped forwards to take the keys from Greg.

Lestrade hesitated before handing the keys over. "The biggest key's for his office, and I'm pretty sure he keeps his letters from home in the filing cabinet by the desk."

"Thanks!" Sherlock called. He was already making his way down the stairs, and John hurried behind him with the keys.

"Bring them back soon," Greg called to the rapidly disappearing figures, already regretting his decision.  
\---  
John handed Sherlock the keys when they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Thanks. So, Mycroft's office or the chemistry labs?" Sherlock inspected the keys.

"Uh, the labs. Why do you want to go to his office?"

"Just a hunch. I think he's keeping something from us." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The chemistry labs it is then. Lead the way." He immediately set off, striding along the corridors with John almost running to keep up.

 

"Perfect." Sherlock slotted the key into the lock and gave it a twist. The door swung open to reveal the darkened lab, the only light creeping between the slots of the closed blinds.

Sherlock reached for the light switch, but John grabbed his wrist before he touched it.

"No. If anyone catches us in here, we're going to get in massive trouble. I bet they'll phone home." John bit his lip. "If we turn on the light, anyone in the staff room is going to get a clear view of our silhouettes through the curtains."

"We'll have to adjust to the light a little, then." Sherlock sighed. "Alright, you check the front of the room and I'll check the back."

"What are we looking for?" John questioned.

As a way of answering, Sherlock pulled the anonymous note out of his pocket and flipped it over. The back of the note was covered in pencil.

"I can't see." John squinted at the paper.

"Hang on a minute." Sherlock dashed over to the teacher's desk at the front of the room and rifled through the drawer. He returned moments later with the box of matches that were used to light Bunsen burners.

"Down here." Sherlock ducked behind a row of desks and lit one of the matches.

John glanced around; making sure the faint orange glow couldn't be seen from the rest of the room, crouched down beside Sherlock.

"I ran a pencil over the back of it to see if I could bring out any indents in the paper. Luckily for us, our secret admirer has a heavy hand."

Now that he had mentioned it, John noticed the lettering in the page where the culprit had pressed into the paper. The part where the note was written on the other side was indiscernible, mingled with another set of words, but at the bottom of the page the indented text was fairly clear.

"At the bottom of the page you can see bits of their chemistry notes. They were writing on another piece of paper that was on top of this one; hard enough to leave most of it scratched into this sheet. That's what that writing is." Sherlock pointed to the lower part of the page. "The top half is the same class notes but mingled with the lettering of the note."

"So are we going to try and match handwriting?"

"No. The writing of the note is clearly not their natural handwriting, and the indenting on the back is too difficult to recognise. No- we're going to try and find the ring binder that has an exact copy of these notes inside." Sherlock ran his finger lightly over the bottom half of the page.

John glanced round at the shelves and shelves of folders all around the edge of the room. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"It won't take that long. No, really. We know that it's a year thirteen, which narrows it down to those shelves. We also know that this person is using the same folder as last year, so we're looking for a more bashed ring binder that's at least a year old. And we know that whoever it is uses Oxford paper and writes with a lot of pressure. If you see a folder that matches that description, just check the last few pages of notes and see if you can find a match of that writing."

John nodded and leant forward to blew out the match, which was now burning dangerously close to Sherlock's fingers. "I'll check the front shelf, then." He headed towards the part of the room Sherlock had pointed him to earlier and carefully laid an armful of folders on a nearby table.  
\---  
John had just finished sorting the likely folders from the ones that were obviously new when Sherlock called him over.

"John." his voice seemed far too loud in the silence, disrupting John’s concentration, eyes flitting to the door to see if a teacher’s silhouette was visible.

"Shut up!" John replied in a harsh whisper. He walked over to Sherlock, eyes now adjusted to the lack of light, and peered over his shoulder at an open folder.

"Is this it?" Sherlock whispered, much quieter this time. He pointed to a page of notes on isomers that appeared to match his description.

John held up the anonymous message and compared the ridges on the back to the one in the folder.

"Looks like it. Wait, yeah- the headings are in the same place. That's it." John flipped the cover of the ring binder and checked the name on the front.

"Gregory Lestrade?"

"Yep." Sherlock grinned. "Can't wait to tell Mycroft." He collected his pile of folders together and piled them messily back onto the shelf. "Greg, though? I can't believe someone sensible like Greg would have a crush on my brother." He gave a short laugh.

"Really, Sherlock? I thought you knew! Honestly, you can be so oblivious sometimes. Everyone in the school knows he likes him- seems that the only exceptions are you and Mycroft. God, even the teachers have noticed!"

"Really?" Sherlock's grin faded and he met John's eye. "How did you know?"

"The was Greg acts around him. The way he signed up to be Sports Captain just so he could share a dorm with Mycroft and the rest of the school council. The way he goes out of his way to spend weekends helping Mycroft with his duties. Mycroft barely goes anywhere without Greg following behind- hadn't you noticed?"

"I don't pay attention to such things."

"He's your brother."

"Unfortunately I am aware of that." Sherlock collected the rest of the folders and dumped them back on the shelf.

John turned away and started tidying his desk as well, rolling his eyes at Sherlock. As soon as John showed signs or rivaling his knowledge he always got so protective.

As he reached up to shove the last ring binder into place, he knocked the shelf and a couple of folders fell. John swore as they hit the floor with a crash, glancing towards the door to make sure no one was walking past.

One of the folders had burst, and Sherlock rushed over to help gather scattered paper from the floor.

"Um, John?"

"What?"

"You might want to have a look at this." Sherlock was holding a collection of sheets that had fallen out of the folder.

"What are they?" John took them from Sherlock's outstretched hand and gave them a curious stare. "More anonymous notes?"

"Even more confusing. Drafts. Our anonymous confidant made a couple of practice notes before writing the real one. Look, that one's been scribbled out, and that one has initials on it."

"G.L." John read aloud. "They are Greg's initials. He was obviously going to send it with his initials and then decided it was too obvious." John paused. "But if Greg wrote the note, then why are they in Joseph Long's folder?"

"And if they were written by Joseph, it's odd that he took the paper from Greg's folder."

John and Sherlock exchanged a curious stare, both trying to work out what was going on.

Then Sherlock shrugged and stood up again. "There's only one way to find out. Find Greg's ring binder again."

By the time John had got hold of the right folder, Sherlock had already filled three test tubes with water and was tearing a strip off the original anonymous note.

"I need a sample of Greg's writing and Joseph's writing as well. Make sure that they both always use the same pen." Sherlock said distractedly. John tore similar strips from a handwritten page from each folder and handed them to Sherlock.

"Are you testing the ink?" John asked.

"I'm trying to. The conditions aren't ideal. Chromatography only works if the paper is absorbent enough to carry the water up the page." He looked so frustrated in that moment than John had to fight the urge to laugh.

Sherlock placed the test tubes carefully into a rack and dropped a slip of paper carefully into each one. The water started to rise up the strips almost immediately and John watched as the ink separated into different pigments.

"Hopefully one of those will match the ink of the note," Sherlock explained. "Each pen has a slightly different ink. Depending on the individual pigments making them up, different colours will rise up the paper in different ways. It's likely that both inks contain the same colours, as they are both black, but the slight differences in the chemical composition of the pigments mean that the colours form different patterns."

John nodded, surprised that Sherlock had managed to pick this up during chemistry. He spent most lessons reading under the table- college level material generally.

After a few more moments, Sherlock pulled the dripping strips out of the test tubes and laid them alongside each other.

"This one was the anonymous note." John pointed. "That one is Greg's pen and that's Joseph's."

"I can't see well enough to tell if any of the patterns match."

John poured the contents of the test tubes away and shoved them on the drying rack, not bothering to rinse them out. "Come on then- we'll take them to the library and work from there."

It took Sherlock all of two minutes to set out the strips and, by gently placing them on the windowsill, watch them dry: edges crinkling and curling as the sun warmed them.

“A-ha.” he muttered, bent over the papers. John glanced up from his copy of Grey’s Anatomy.

“What?”

“Our culprit is Joseph Long.” Sherlock straightened in his chair and peered over John’s shoulder and out the window. “He’s sitting outside.”

\--  
It was a warm day and Joseph Long and his friends were sprawled out in the shade of a tree, lazily lobbing balls of crumpled paper and empty drinks cans at each other. One of them sat up as Sherlock and John approached, surveying them with a disdainful expression.

“What do you squirts want?” he called, and the rest of the boys instantly joined in, echoing his cry.

Sherlock stepped forward and opened his mouth, no doubt ready to deliver some scathing remark. John reached over to him and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Sherlock turned and shot John a look- a ‘don’t interrupt me when I’m deducing’ look- and hissed a quiet “What?”

“I’ll take this one, Sherlock.” John let his hand drop and took a step forward. One of the boys wolf-whistled.

“Joseph Long?” John questioned.

“That’s me.” The boy who had initially addressed them propped himself up on his elbow and looked curiously at the two of them, sizing them up.

John paused, unsure of how to proceed. He hesitated. “Um. Can we talk to you alone please?” he asked finally, hearing Sherlock’s impatient huff behind him as Joseph Long failed to respond immediately.

“What is it? Anything you have to say you can say in front of these guys.”

“Uh-“

“Why did you ask out my brother?” Sherlock interrupted, finally losing his patience. There was a wave of giggling from amongst the other boys.

“Shut up!” Joseph Long snapped, face bright red. “Greg was never going to get round to it, was he?”

“Greg?” Sherlock asked, nonplussed. “Oh you mean Gavin.”

John nudged him. “It really is Greg, Sherlock.”

“I don’t- why would you do that?”

“Little bit of Valentine’s Day fun, isn’t it?” Joseph Long smirked, earning himself a round of high fives from his friends.

“You mean you sent the invitation to my brother on Greg’s behalf?”

“Well yeah.” Joseph Long grinned. “Bit slow, are you?”

“Come on.” John insisted, firmly steering Sherlock away from the group of boys.

“Runs in the family, does it?” He heard one of the boys whisper and his ears turned bright red.

\--  
When they got back to the library, Sherlock grabbed his stuff and headed for the exit. “Come on John! We should go and tell Greg.”

“Sherlock. No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“You can’t just tell Greg!”

“Why ever not?”

“Because that’s not... That’s not what people do!”

“Sentiment?” Sherlock frowned.

John shook his head. “No. Sort of. It’s embarrassing.”

“Why?” Sherlock frowned. “He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Greg has nothing to be embarrassed about!”

“Sherlock!” John groaned, stopping half way up the stairs. Sherlock turned and set down his bag, plopping down on the steps next to John. “You don’t understand.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “John, I think it’s fairly safe to say-“  
“There’s very little-“

“Nothing.”

“Very little,” John continued doggedly, “That Sherlock Holmes does not understand.” He looked Sherlock squarely in the eye. “But human emotions is one of those things.”

Sherlock looked disgruntled. “It’s this,” he said smugly, “or Mycroft.”

“Oh no we are not telling Mycroft about this.”

“Then-“

“Fine.” John conceded. “But let me handle this.”

\--  
They found Greg by the rugby pitch. Sherlock kept to his word and let John explain the situation to a very incredulous Lestrade.

“You haven’t told Mycroft, have you?” he asked nervously as soon as John had finished his narrative.

“No.” John reassured him.

Greg let out a shaky breath and released his grip on the rugby ball he’d been holding. “Well that’s something, at least.”

\--  
“How are we going to tell Mycroft?” Sherlock asked on the way to the Head Boy’s office.

“We’re not.” John said shortly, hoisting his bag a little higher onto his shoulder.

“Then what-?” Sherlock frowned.

“You’re going to tell him that you couldn’t figure out who it was.” John said determinedly.

“No I will not!”  
\--  
“I couldn’t find out who it was.” Sherlock said, avoiding Mycroft’s disbelieving stare and opting to look instead at the school announcements board, decorated this week with posters inviting students to the school dance in pink lettering. “Whoever it was covered their tracks well.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “Dear me, brother mine, dear me.”

They got up to leave but Mycroft, who was comfortably reclined in his chair, called them back. “Are you two going to the dance?”

“No.” John answered quickly. “We- we haven’t found dates yet.”

\--  
“Thanks!” Greg said earnestly, clapping Sherlock heartily on the back. “Is there anything I can do to repay you for that?”

“Actually, yes.” John answered sheepishly. “We were thinking of maybe going to the dance ourselves. But we can’t-“

“You can’t.” Sherlock grumbled.

“We can’t- we don’t have dates. Can you get us dates?”

Greg smiled widely. “My sister goes to the girl’s school.” He winked conspiratorially. “I can get her to set you up with some of her friends.” He frowned. “Year eight, right?”

John nodded confirmation. “That’s right.”

\--  
John gave himself one last check-over in the mirror before leaving the bathroom. Sherlock was in the dorm, expertly tying his bow tie.

“You ready?”

“Just about.” Sherlock replied, doing up his cufflinks with one hand and straightening his bow tie with the other.

“Nice bow tie.”

“Bow ties are cool.” Sherlock said defensively. “Ready.” John looked Sherlock up and down. He was wearing a very fitted tuxedo, obviously made for Sherlock’s slim frame. He looked... good.

“Where did you get the suit?” John asked. His own suit- bought for him last year for a cousin’s wedding- was drab in comparison.

“Specially tailored for my Aunt Edith’s funeral- Mycroft has an identical one. Grown ups like that kind of thing. No idea why.” Sherlock rolled back on the balls of his feet and gestured to the door. “Lets go.”

John shot a last glance at his reflection, ran a hand through his hair, and then gave Sherlock a nervous smile. “Ready.”

\--  
“Boys.” Greg walked up the steps to the school building and to where Sherlock and John stood in the shadows beside the entrance. He was leading two girls behind him, both of whom where giggling quietly.

“Sherlock, this is Molly. Molly Hooper.” Sherlock gave the mousy-haired girl a curt nod and she blushed deeply and began to fiddle with the material of her dark blue dress, hair falling to hide her face a little.

“And this is Sarah Sawyer!” Greg grinned, pointing to the tall blonde who stood beside him.

“Any relation to Tom Sawyer?” John asked jokingly.

“No.”

“Oh.”

They stood there somewhat awkwardly for a moment, stubbornly avoiding each other’s eyes. The school had tried to theme this year’s dance “Southern Belle”, but since none of the girls had been willing to show up in hoop skirts, they’d had to abandon that idea.

“Well I’ll be off then.” Greg said, breaking the silence before turning and disappearing into the hall.  
John gestured to the dance floor. “Shall we?” he asked, and he and Sarah vanished into the melee of dancing students.

Molly turned to Sherlock and gave him a shy smile. “Hi!” she waved.

“Hi.” Sherlock replied. He paused, gave her a once over and swallowed. “You look... nice?” Without further ado he turned and walked briskly into the party, Molly following at his heels.

\--  
The dance is lit- carefully- by an abundance of lanterns and paper streamers, throwing luminous shadows down on the school of teenagers below. The girls from Moffat house mingled with the boys, chatting and, occasionally, dancing. Sherlock was instantly bored. He made his way over to one of the small tables by the edge of the dance floor and sat down, Molly soon following his lead.

“He shouldn’t be talking to her.” Sherlock nodded towards one of the teachers from Moffat House, who was chatting with Miss Betula, the sixth form English teacher. “His wife’s having an affair with the P. E. teacher and she’s going out with Miss Rerum, the history teacher.”

Molly gasped. “How did you know?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Molly shook her head in a muted no, and Sherlock sighed, exasperated. “What it is like your funny little brain? It must be so boring...” He trailed off, eyes fixed a table on the other side of the room, half hidden in shadow, lit only by the glow of one- no two candles. Sherlock stood up quickly and marched over to the table, leaving a surprised and slightly baffled Molly behind.

As he got closer, he suddenly realised that the second flame was not a candle at all. A small piece of paper was burning gently, singing the table with every step of the dancing flame. Quickly, he slammed his hand down on top of the paper and held it there until the fire was completely smothered. A last flame curled round his finger and dissipated, causing a tiny breath of smoke to spiral up to the ceiling. 

“Sherlock!” John’s exasperated voice rose above the noise of the crowd as he squeezed his way through the crowd and into the space that had been left between the students and him. John gingerly lifted Sherlock’s hand off the table and winced at its blackened state.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Somebody did this on purpose.” Sherlock glanced furtively over his shoulder, but nobody was paying them any attention. He grinned excitedly.

“Never mind that.” John looked towards the door. “We need to get this under some cold water and then find some cream.” 

“John, you don’t understand!” Sherlock gesturing wildly, seemingly ignorant of the raw flesh on his right hand. “This paper-”

Sherlock peered at it for the first time. It was typewritten and curling at the edges, blackened but still partly legible. “-lock Come and play. The Lake. - JM”

“Somebody left this here for us.” Sherlock stated. 

“It could have been for anyone!”

“Who else has a name ending in ‘lock’?” he asked, grabbing John’s hand. Sarah and Molly exchanged a glance as the pair sped past them and out of the dancehall.

 

\--  
Greg leant against the door and breathed out a bored sigh. His date had left him in favour of his classmate Joseph Long, and there didn’t seem to be any chance of her returning. He spotted Mycroft standing by the edge of the stage and made his way over.

“Mycroft? Where’s your date?” 

“I oversee the dance. I don’t partake in it.” Mycroft said flatly. Then his lips quirked up at the corners. “Sherlock’s always been the expert in that area.”

“He dances? Really?”

Mycroft nodded fondly. “Yes. He’s always liked dancing. Dancing and music. Funny little kid.”

They looked at the crowd in companionable silence for a few moments. “Can’t you dance?” Greg asked finally.

“Of course.” Mycroft said, looking affronted. 

Sensing a chance- although not much of one- Greg took a step forward and offered his arm to Mycroft, who looked at it in pericombobulation. “May I have this dance?” he grinned jokingly. Mycroft’s eyebrows rose.

“Can you be serious Gregory?” 

Greg shrugged and lowered his arm. Perhaps he’d spend the evening alone. He gave Mycroft a small smile and turned away, hiding his rising blush, and mumbled some excuse to the floor. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t recall saying no.”

\--

The lake was more black than blue in the light of the moon. John and Sherlock sprinted down the embankment and skidded to a stop at the bottom, breathing heavily. The grass was slick with dew and they both very nearly ended up on their backsides. Sherlock looked around wildly. There was no one there.

“This can’t be right,” he muttered distractedly. “no.”

“Who did you say called us?” John asked, scanning the lakeside for any signs of life.

“JM.”

“What’s that?” John looked back at Sherlock.

“No idea.” Sherlock admitted, still not meeting John’s eyes.

“What is it? Initials? A name? An organization?”

Sherlock shook his head again. “It could be anyone.”

“Great.” John groaned. “I was getting on quite well with Sarah.” He straightened his tie importantly.

“Never mind that, John, we’ve got ourselves another anonymous note-writer!”

“So you think this is like Joseph Long’s notes?” John questioned. “Essentially harmless?” There was a glint in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Well someone wanted to get us away from the dance. Maybe they’re not waiting here at all; maybe it’s a distraction. Or a test-” 

An owl hooted, making both the boys jump. 

“A distraction? From what?” John looked up at the school. “You think something’s going to happen up there?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock frowned. There was a breath of wind and they shivered.

John swore under his breath. “The girls are up there.” He turned and started to head up the hill again. “Come on Sherlock!”

“Why?”

“There are people up there, Sherlock. Someone wanted to get rid of us. It’s not safe.” John slipped on the dewy grass and fell, but was soon on his feet again.

“No John!” Sherlock shouted. “I know your father’s time in Afghanistan has made you fear the worst but the best way to end this is to figure out who sent that note.”

“But you said it was a distraction.” John’s brow wrinkled in confusion and his eyes kept flicking back up at the school. He did, nonetheless, stop his efforts to scramble up the hill.

A twig cracked behind them and Sherlock whirled around, hand immediately going to his hip, as if expecting his hand to find a gun rather than thin air. John froze.

“Show yourself.” He called out.

“Hiii.” A voice said from behind them and they spun around again to see a shadowy figure from their preschool days, resplendent in a flashy Westwood suit, standing on the hillside.

“What are you two doing out alone by the lake?” he asked teasingly.

“Jim? Is that you?”

“You guessed it.”

“Why are you here?”

“I followed you.” He said awkwardly, holding his hands out, palms up in apology. “Thought there might be some interesting gossip…”

John blushed. “We’re not-”

“Although you do both appear to have got quite dirty down here.” He gestured to their muddy suits, smirking.

Sherlock interrupted the rapidly thickening silence. “What do you know about the note?”

“Note? What note?” Jim’s voice was sickeningly innocent.

John’s shoulders slumped. “Sherlock.” he hissed, “We need to get up to the school just in case-”

“That suit looks good on you Johnny-boy.” Jim grinned, interrupting. “Even with mud splashed all up the back.”

He received a disapproving glare from Sherlock, who then turned to John and gave him a curt nod. “Whoever sent that note is long gone.” Sherlock shot a nasty glare at Jim before continuing. “But return to the school would be advisable. Come on.” He took off up the sloped bank.

\--

The last notes of the piece sounded and the music faded for a moment. Greg dropped Mycroft’s hands and took a step back, embarrassed at his poor dancing skills. He peered at Mycroft, who was, oddly enough, still there.

“Sorry.” he apologized quietly.

“What for, Gregory?”

“I never really learnt to dance.”

“Well, in that case, you were amazingly good.”

Neither of them noticed that the rest of the room had gone silent, nor that they were being watched from all angles. A yell caught their attention and the room turned as one in time to see Joseph Long, valentine note writer, toppling down the staircase that lead into the dance hall from the upper floors.

Joseph landed with a sickening crunch on the floor. For a moment there was deafening silence, and then uproar. Mycroft forced his way through the crowd, head boy badge in hand, and knelt down beside him. The front doors burst opened and John and Sherlock dashed inside, covered in mud. 

“Who’s hurt?” John asked, making his way over, Sherlock in tow. “We need to get him to the nurse right away.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, bright eyes alight with curiosity. 

People exchanged glances. “He was drunk, I guess,” One muttered. There was a general murmur of assent from the gathering crowd.

John had already roped a few burly year tens into carrying Joseph Long and beckoned Sherlock to follow him. Mycroft stood up, brushed down his suit, and escorted John. Greg and Sherlock trailed behind.

Mrs. Hudson clucked disapprovingly as the party showed up at the door to the hospital ward. “What’s happened this time?” she asked curiously, opening the door wide. “He looks more than a little tipsy to me.”

“I think he’s got a broken wrist from the fall, and possibly a concussion.” John said. “He’s unconscious, and as drunk as a skunk. But he wasn’t unconscious when he fell, though.” He turned and nodded to the year tens, who left, along with Mycroft.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and gave John a motherly pat. “He’ll be fine dear.” She said, taking his pulse and, torch in hand, opening an eyelid taking a look. “He’s got a concussion, and a rather nasty blow to the head, but he’ll live- it looks like he took most of the fall on his wrist.” Mrs. Hudson bustled over to her cupboards and began to see if she could find something. “We’ll keep an eye on him dear, okay?”

John breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on one of the chairs in the office. Sherlock was not so easily satisfied and approached the hospital bed they had placed Joseph Long on with a critical eye. Joseph Long’s brown, chin-length hair hid some of his neck, and his shirt collar hid the rest. Sherlock, with a wary eye on Mrs. Hudson, who was still searching the cupboards, swept Joseph’s hair away from his neck and slid the collar down a little. He sucked in a breath.

“Look John!” Sherlock breathed. He bent closer to Joseph Long’s unconscious form and peered at it suspiciously.

John looked up. “What?” he asked, standing up and joining Sherlock at the bedside. 

“Small needle mark on the back of his throat. Dangerously close to the spinal cord.” John gasped.  
“But why Joseph Long?” Sherlock said, more to himself than John.

“Whatever the reason,” John said grimly “You need to get that hand of yours seen to.”

\----

“Congratulations to another fine generation of students who sadly leave us this year to become our new teachers, politicians, lawyers, writers and so much more. We say goodbye with heavy hearts but with a firm push into the future.” With that the headmaster took a small bow and shuffled off the stage, yielding the microphone to the head of the student council- Mrs. Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for the Graduate Awards- although god knows leaving this school is reward enough.” There were a few titters from the crowd. “Anyway, lets begin with Best Smiles.”

The whole school was gathered for the last assembly of the Sixth Formers. They would be going on study leave soon, only coming back for their actual exams. There was an air of unrest in the great hall, as the older students were simultaneously nostalgic and excited to be able to finally leave after seven years of schooling.

“The award for best sportsman goes to…”

The students applauded thunderously as each name was called out. Sherlock was inspecting the back of his hand disinterestedly, and John was trying hard not to zone out of the monotonous speech. They were on the other side of the room to the older students, and over here the general vibe was more of boredom. The boy sitting in front of John let out a loud snore and there was a ripple of subdued laughter as heads turned his way and the person sitting next to him gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. He jerked awake with a gasp.

“And finally, the award for the cutest couple goes to...”

Suddenly, where before there had been an undertone of quiet whispering, everyone was silent. Sherlock looked up at the stage, curious, and John craned his head to try and catch a glimpse of what was going on.

“Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade!”

A positively evil grin broke out across Sherlock’s face as the entire room of the school erupted into deafening cheers and applause. A very confused Mycroft stood up from the front row, swaying slightly, and made his way onto the stage, face soon composed into his custom mask. Greg trailed behind him, burning red, and obviously confused as to whether he should be ecstatic or mortified.

Mycroft stepped up to the microphone. “It’s very flattering that you all voted for us as the... cutest couple,” he seemed to struggle to get the words out. “Very flattering, yet Gregory and I-”

Everything went silent.

“We’re not-”

There was a collective groan from the audience, and someone somewhere yelled out, “Just kiss him, for goodness’ sake!”

Greg hesitated for a split second, listening to the rush of encouraging shouts from the front rows. He grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders and pulled him into a kiss. The room burst out into enthusiastic cheering again and even some of the teachers stood up and joined in.

“About time!”

“I Ship It!”

“Again?” Greg smiled, pulling back for breath.

“Again.” Mycroft smiled.


	4. Year Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are just starting to get used year nine when they're approached by someone with the news of a murder and suspicions of the culprit.

Joseph Long had been admitted to the infirmary with a broken wrist and a concussion after his fall down the stairs during the school dance. No one seemed to think it unusual that there hadn’t been a very high level of alcohol in him when he fell, nor that he, an unusually seasoned drinker for a year thirteen, had suddenly buckled at the legs after one cup of punch. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, just wouldn’t let it go. Or at least, that’s what Mycroft said when he caught Sherlock sneaking out during the summer holidays to “question the victim”. 

“You’re not a proper detective Sherlock.” Mycroft had sighed. “Our little games of deduction are hardly enough, and you need to accept that Mrs. Hudson diagnosed him correctly.”

When Sherlock had begun to protest, Mycroft had left the room. “Let it go, Sherlock.” 

But, of course, Sherlock didn’t.  
\--

John dumped all of his new textbooks onto his bed with an exaggerated groan. Thankfully Sherlock was nowhere to be seen- he’d taken to doing his thinking on John’s bed since the beginning of term and John just wasn’t sure what to make of it.

The door opened and Mike Stamford walked in, bit plumper from a summer of reduced rugby training, but grinning nonetheless. “Watson!” he beamed, “Still up for some rugby this week? I’ve been made team captain since Lestrade left, you know.”

They managed to catch up on summers and families for a few minutes- Harry had got a job at the old pub in the village, called “The Flap and Throttle” for its proximity to the old airfield, and had openly started dating her best friend Clara- before Sherlock burst in on them.

He was muttering something under his breath that sounded rather like “That _idiot_ Anderson” and something about German/English translation. He swept past John and Mike like they weren’t even there and headed towards John’s bed, freezing when he saw the books there.

Mike waved John a hurried goodbye and left the dorm-room, making John promise to see him bright and early for practice next morning. John made his way over to Sherlock and started to pick up his textbooks. There were more than usual this year, because John was taking some extra classes with Dr. Smith to start learning about becoming a Doctor.

“You okay?” he asked tentatively, moving his copy of “New Oxford Textbook of Psychiatry (2nd edition)” off the bed and into the trunk beside it.

“What kind of question is that?” Sherlock hissed, throwing himself onto John’s bed and curling up like a toddler having a tantrum. “I’m BORED!”

John raised an eyebrow and stuffed the rest of his books into his bag. “It’s only the third week of school Sherlock, and we have got class today you know.”

Sherlock rolled over and shot John an insulted look. A ‘don’t-insult-my-intelligence’ look. “Dull.” he said simply. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started to scroll through his texts. “I’ve spread the word that I’m willing to take on cases now that my brother’s out of the school.”

“You- What?” John paused, school bag in hand. “How?”

“I have something of a network among the younger students.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, still scrolling. “They’ll get the word out.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you have to get yourself to your afternoon lessons.”

\--  
This time when John got back to the dorm after his last lesson- English with Mr. B- he found two people sitting on his bed. One was Sherlock- naturally- and the other was an older girl- about eighteen, with poofy-dark brown hair and brown eyes.

“John!” Sherlock smiled broadly. “Come join us.”

“Hi.” The girl said shyly, holding out her hand. “I’m Sally.”

John looked to Sherlock for an explanation. “I’ve got a case.” Sherlock said, eyes alight with excitement. John turned to face Sally and waited for her to begin. She seemed at a loss.

“Tell us what happened.” John said gently. “Take your time.”

“But quite quickly.” Sherlock insisted, settling himself back against John’s headboard.

Sally didn’t seem to hear Sherlock’s remark, choosing instead to stand up and pace. “I attend a college down in London. I’m majoring in-” she noted Sherlock’s disinterested expression, but ploughed on nonetheless. “In Criminology, basically. But I have a lot of friends in the Arts department. And last week- And last week my… friend Pietro…” She took a deep breath.

“And last week Pietro’s boyfriend found him, stabbed and dead, lying in his apartment.”

Sherlock looked up, attention captured at last. “Go on.” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

“The police are saying it was an intruder. That they killed Pietro and left. But I don’t think so.” Sherlock frowned, but didn’t interrupt, surprisingly enough. “I think Beppo- that’s Pietro’s boyfriend, they both major in arts; Pietro in pottery and Beppo in Fine Arts- did it.”

John leant forward, forearms resting on his knees, and stared Sally in the eyes. “Why would you think that?” he asked curiously. She started to pace again but then seemed to think better of it.

“They had a rocky relationship already. And Pietro was never good enough for Beppo. Beppo never treated Pietro as he deserved.” Sally’s tone heated up and she wrung her hands.

“You loved him.” Sherlock stated simply, then continued under his breath. “Caring is not an advantage.” 

“Will you look into it?” She asked, gazing hopefully at Sherlock, who nodded his affirmation. He steepled his fingers beneath his nose, index fingers resting against his lips, and sank into his thoughts.

“So how did you hear about us exactly?” John questioned.

Sally looked confused. “My little brother goes here.”

“He’s one of my network.” Sherlock smiled. He held his hand out to John, who just stared at it uncertainly. “My laptop please.” John sighed and passed it to him. Sherlock flipped it open and immediately started typing. 

Sally looked uncertain. “So my brother, he says you can tell all about a person just from looking at them.”

“Believe me, he can.” John said grimly, remembering briefly the hurt Sherlock had inflicted on him back in primary school. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Sally didn’t seem fazed. “Lets hear it then.”

Sherlock glanced up from his laptop, lip curling into a smile. He straightened himself on the bed. “You took the first train up from London this morning, straight from your apartment. You were staying with your boyfriend most nights until about a week ago- and that boyfriend looks to be our pottery-making corpse.” He smirked. “Nice taste.”

Sally was shaking by this point. She snatched her coat off the end of John’s bed and all but ran for the door, pausing only to yell “Freak!” on her way out.

“That went well.” Sherlock commented briefly, before returning to his laptop.  
\--

“Aha!” Sherlock yelled about two hours later. John looked up from his phone with mild interest. He had been texting Sarah- they’d met up again over the summer and John found himself thinking that he rather liked the way she smiled.

“Hang on a sec-” John typed out his text, with fumbling fingers. “Just let me finish this text to Sarah.”

“I don’t see the point of her.” Sherlock complained. “Anyway. There have been burglaries on Sally’s campus in the last week- one in the dorm of one of Pietro’s friends. We need to get down there and-”

“Whoa.” John turned his phone to sleep and stuck it in his pocket. “No way.”

“What? Why not?” Sherlock asked, hand already reaching for his things.

“We’ve got school, Sherlock. We can’t just go gallivanting off to London.”

“Fine. We go on the weekend.” He announced, as if this solved all problems, and got up. “See you this evening.” 

And with that he walked out the door, leaving John to his homework.  
\--

John was on the rugby pitch when Sherlock charged across the field and thrust a train ticket at him. He scanned the ticket, reading the small printed letters that told him he’d apparently be catching the 11.01 train to King’s Cross the following day. He raised an eyebrow incredulously.

“London?” he questioned, holding up the ticket as evidence. “You didn’t really _mean_ that did you?”

“Naturally.”

The rugby team Captain had noticed the appearance of the gangly, dark haired boy on the pitch with some concern. “Watson?” he called, beginning to jog over, rugby ball under his arm, “Everything alright?”

Tom Olivers had replaced Greg Lestrade as team captain at the end of the previous school year. He looked remarkably like Sherlock in stature, though he was a little more muscled and his hair was a sandier shade of brown.

“It’s a school day Sherlock.” John hissed. “We can’t go. We’ll be in Geography.”

“Geography’s boring.”

Tom was getting closer at this point, and he tossed the rugby ball in their direction. It hit Sherlock squarely in the stomach and he sat down with an ‘oof”. There were sniggers from the rugby team as John helped Sherlock to his feet.

“You alright?” John asked, looking Sherlock up and down in concern, a tinge of worry entering his tone. Worry and something else.

“Fine.” Sherlock said, but his voice lacked both conviction and volume, the rugby ball having knocked the wind out of him. Tom stood a few metres away, waiting for Sherlock to leave the pitch so practice could continue. John glanced at him and back to Sherlock.

“We’ll talk about it later.” he muttered into Sherlock’s ear. “See you at dinner.” And with that he picked the rugby ball up from where it had bounced to and threw it back to Tom.  
\--

John was just helping himself to a second portion of casserole when Sherlock slid into the seat opposite him. He made no mood to get any food, instead fiddled with the blazer of his school uniform. There was an awkward pause, the chatter from the rest of the cafeteria’s occupants somehow making it all the more tense.

“H-h-how was rugby practice?” Sherlock stammered, making an attempt at conversation, while stubbornly avoiding John’s eyes. John ignored him, and then set down his cutlery on the table.

“You can’t be serious about London.”

“It’s not _difficult_. We can easily get past the school’s so called ‘security’, and the train station’s not even five minutes walk-” Sherlock trailed off as he caught sight of John’s exasperated expression. “What?” he asked defensively.

“We’d need parental permission to leave campus, I don’t suppose you’ve asked?”

Sherlock smirked. “No need, I have my network.” He pulled his phone out and started to type.

“What are you doing?” John had paused with his fork of casserole halfway to his mouth, suspiciously eying Sherlock’s fingers as they tapped the screen.

“I’m just notifying the network-”

“A group of twelve year olds.” John pointed out, gesturing with his- thankfully empty- fork.

“I’m notifying them that they’ll need to cause a distraction at precisely 10.44 tomorrow morning if we’re to get out and to the train in time.” He grinned mischievously. “A fire drill should suffice, don’t you think?”

John dropped his fork. It landed in the midst of his remaining casserole with a barely audible thump, then a clang as the handle hit the side of the plate. “There is absolutely no way I’m breaking who knows how many school rules to go running off to London with you Sherlock! And to investigate something that’s probably just a trumped-up suicide!” John picked his fork up again and stabbed a piece of beef. Something seemed to occur to him. “We’ll get mixed up with the police- that’s how people get Shot!”

By the time John reached the end of his rant he was almost shouting. A few heads turned their way. Sherlock leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Come on John,” he pleaded, “The thrill of the chase… the blood pumping through your veins- just the two of us against the rest of the world.”

John leaned back in his chair and folded his arms in a way that was admitting of defeat. “You’re going to go whether I come with you or not.”

“It’ll be fun.” There was a short pause, though not an unfriendly one.

Then John smiled. “Alright then.”

\--  
As the clock ticked from 10:42 to 10:43, the speed of John’s frantic clicking of his ballpoint pen increased dramatically. Sherlock, meanwhile, had already packed. John tried half-heartedly to focus on the words of the professor- something about mountain ranges in South America- but his gaze kept shifting back to the clock.

The moment the minute hand hit 10:44 Sherlock got up, bag slung over his shoulder, and stalked out.

The whole class immediately lost interest in Professor Crieff’s lecture, all heads turning in time to watch the door slam closed behind Sherlock’s retreating figure.

“Care to explain?” The object of Professor’s scrutiny shifted from the door to John. Feeling slightly lost, John grabbed his bag and stuffed his Geography supplies inside.

“I should probably go and see if he’s okay?” he tried, excuse turning into askance when the Professor raised an eyebrow.

John had only partially risen out of his chair when the fire alarm began to blare. A wave of incredulous murmuring spread through the class, followed by a rush of movement to get out. 

“Shut down engine number four!” Professor Crieff yelled, then blinked a few times, face reddening. “I mean everyone line up in register order!” He frowned, briefly as he tried to mentally recall the fire alarm procedure he had memorized at the beginning of the year.

He turned to John, shouting above the shrieking of the siren. “I trust you to find and get yourself and Mr. Holmes out of here.”

Grinning, John grabbed his bag and ran out the door.  
\--

Sherlock was waiting just outside the school. When he saw John approaching he whipped out his phone and fired out another text. 

“What took you so long?” Sherlock called, pocketing his phone. “My network have been waiting to turn off the alarm, I thought you were right behind me,”

John didn’t respond, but shrugged his bag- now lighter thanks to him having dumped his Geography folder in his locker on the way out- higher on his shoulder and set off at a fast pace.  
\--

Platform 9 was crowded when John and Sherlock stepped off the train with tourists dragging suitcases and business people hurrying along carrying briefcases. John grabbed the back of Sherlock’s bag to stop him getting separated from his friend.

When they exited into the street- equally busy with cars and buses and people- John rounded on Sherlock. “Did you really have to start making deductions about the conductor?” John asked loudly, sticking a hand out into the road to hail a taxi.

“Of course.” Sherlock looked mildly insulted. “He was stealing sandwiches off the refreshment trolley. He should know it’s obvious.”

“How is that obvious?” John asked, glaring resolutely in the other direction. The roads were emptying as buses started up their engines and left, and there was no sign of a taxi.”

“Crumbs under his fingernails and between his fingers.” Sherlock started. “The sandwiches were wrapped up. Not his own sandwiches- he carried a lunch bag with room for one or two at most. The sandwich must have been eaten recently- the crumbs had yet to fall off. He had been walking round with the trolley when we got on, clearly on shift. The pile of cling-film wrappers shoddily concealed under the packets of crisps still had stickers on them. The train buys the sandwiches at the beginning of the day- shipped in judging by the squashing, so they’re not his-”

“Brilliant.” John interrupted, giving up on the cold shoulder technique. Sherlock grinned. 

“Really?” 

John smiled warmly back, then confirmed it. “Really.”

Sherlock stuck his hand out into the road, still smiling slightly. A taxi pulled up and Sherlock jumped in.  
\--  
Sherlock unfolded a crumpled ball of paper and directed John down a small road by where the taxi had dropped them. They had no sooner taken a few steps down it than there was a shout from behind them and John turned to see the cabbie leaning out of the window and waving at them to come back.

“Didn’t you pay him, Sherlock?” John questioned. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as if confused. John groaned and ran back to pay their fare. 

When John got back Sherlock was standing outside a four story flat waiting for him. “You do have to pay them you know.”

“What for?” Sherlock said absently, eyeing the sandstone building critically. “It’s that window on the third floor.”

John craned his neck and looked up. “How are we going to get in?” John asked. “Climb that tree and then in through the window?”

“If you insist.” Sherlock smirked. “My original plan had been to buzz the intercom.”

John laughed. “Probably easier.”

Sherlock pressed the button for the other third floor flat and cleared his throat. The intercom clicked and a female voice responded.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi! My aunt lives in the apartment below you, but I don’t think she heard me buzzing and she’s not answering her phone,” Sherlock’s voice had dropped an octave and he sounded every bit the scared child. “You don’t know if there’s anything wrong do you?”

“I don’t think anything’s wrong.” The woman replied, tone tinged with concern. “Would you like me to buzz you in?”

“Please.” Sherlock said, and the door clicked open.  
\--  
“This is it.” John said, looking at the door of flat 3/2. “How are we getting in?” He bent down and peered at the lock. “Have you got a paperclip?” He began to rummage through his bag in hopes of finding one, but stopped when Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder.

“Once again John, you appear to be opting for the rather over complicated solution.” Sherlock said, crouching down and lifting up the doormat to reveal the house key.

He inserted it into the lock and twisted it. The door swung open with a satisfying bang. It was clear that the police had beaten them to the site. There were things all over the floor and small place cards marking potential evidence. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tore down the yellow “X” of tape covering the doorway.

“I’ll be damned if those imbeciles in forensics haven’t spoiled all of the important bits by now.”

John turned to face Sherlock. “Have you been to one of these before then?” John asked, nose wrinkled at the smell, no doubt of unwashed dishes and a slowly decaying dinner. “A crime scene, I mean.”

“Of course.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “Hasn’t everyone?”

“No.” John answered slowly. “Why have you?”

“My Uncle William was murdered.” Sherlock said, beginning to pace around the flat, stopping every so often to peer closely at seemingly random objects. He made a face. “The police said it was suicide, that he overdosed on his pills. But there was evidence to the contrary- at least until the forensics clots destroyed it.”

“Oh.” John paused. “I’m sorry.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored the remark. Stepping into the flat, John cleared his throat to get his friend’s attention. “I suppose that means you know that all this,” he made a sweeping gesture at the contents of the flat, “means?”

“Well the window supports the ‘official’ theory of an intruder.” Sherlock said, disdain dripping from his tone, “but the shatter pattern indicates that it was broken- carefully- from the inside.” he stuck his head carefully through the window, long fingers caressing the glass. “Probably through the next window along.”

John knelt down by one of the police markers, holding his hand above the shards of pottery that were scattered around the kiln; presumably the shattered remains of whatever Pietro had been making on the night of his murder.

“He was a pottery major?” John asked, nose wrinkled. Clay in general had never appealed to him, and the wonky pot he’d made for his mother in kindergarten had exploded in the school’s kiln. 

“Yes…” Sherlock was still inspecting the glass, but at John’s words he whirled around and began to inspect the pottery pieces. For a moment there was silence, John carefully turning over fragments of clay and Sherlock crouched, hands steepled, fingers just brushing his lips, and contemplating the scene. “John.”

“Hmm?” he looked up just in time to see Sherlock walk briskly past him and towards the door. He opened it and beckoned to John. 

“Catch the tube into London and visit the Hickman Gallery.” Sherlock said, ushering John out the door and towards the stairs. “Find anything out about Pietro Venucci’s latest art project, and these students.” He stuffed a piece of paper into John’s blazer pocket and gave him a last shove towards the exit.

John resisted. “And where are you going?” 

“I need to talk to Beppo Rovito.”  
\--  
Luckily the Hickman Gallery was pretty easy to find, and even easier to get into. All John had to do was flash his school ID and mumble something about a school projects in the newspaper and they let him in- after he paid the entrance fee of course.

A smartly dressed woman strode into the main gallery, high heels clicking quietly on the marble floor. “Are you here for the Vermeer painting?” She asked in a vaguely Russian accent, looking John up and down and eyeing his mussed up school uniform.

“No.” John said hurriedly, then cleared his throat. “No.” 

“Then what?”

“I hear some University students submitted some work recently?” The woman smirked and clicked- there didn’t seem to be any other way to describe how she walked- to the reception desk and picked up a walkie-talkie.

“Mr. Smith can you bring the Student Work portfolio from this season up to reception please?” She gestured for John to take a seat in one of the few chairs position around the gallery. “I am Mrs. Wenceslas.”

“John Watson.” 

A security guard entered the room, talking into his own radio. As he passed them he held out a file, which Mrs. Wenceslas took, and then continued on. “I heard about the murder.” John said, trying to break the silence.

“Yes.” She seemed distracted, leafing through the work. “I have some of Mr. Venucci’s work documented here.”

John leaned forward, unconsciously licking his lower lip. “What was he working on right before he died?”

In answer Mrs. Wenceslas passed John a glossy picture of six clay busts. “Is that- Is that Margaret Thatcher?” He held the print up and inspected it. Six busts of former Prime Minister M. Thatcher, with devil’s horns. He raised his eyebrows incredulously.

“Do you have these on display?”

“No.”

“Where are they?” He asked curiously.

“They have been sold.” Mrs. Wenceslas shrugged apologetically. “I can give you names, but beyond that-”

“Please.” 

“Mark Bandford, Sophia Cabot-”

“Hang on.” John yanked his bag up onto his lap and began to search through it, scrambling to find the slip of paper Sherlock had handed him on the way out of Pietro’s apartment. There, scrawled in Sherlock’s cramped handwriting, were five names- two of which were Mark Bandford and Sophia Cabot.

“These people have recently been burgled,” he said, showing the paper to Mrs. Wenceslas. She seemed surprised.

“Have they?”

“This is important,” John said, pulling out his pen and clicking it. “Who bought the last statue?”

“Jeremy Reynolds.” Mrs. Wenceslas responded quickly. “Is this really important?”

“Yes.” John answered, preoccupied with shoving his notebook back into his rucksack. He shouldered his bag. “I’ve got to go.”

The moment he left the gallery John fired off a quick text to Sherlock, telling him to meet him back at the station.  
\--

“Find anything?” Sherlock called. John held up the list Sherlock had written for him in answer, five of the names now crossed off. He jogged over to Sherlock, ramming through the crowd until he was stood beside his friend next to a row of baggage trolleys.

“Remember the five people who’d been burgled?” he shouted. Sherlock nodded. “They all bought some of Pietro’s work- clay busts of Maggie Thatcher.” John pulled out the picture and handed it over. “There were six busts though.”

“Did you get the name of the last person?” Sherlock asked, dragging John into a coffee shop in order to hear him better. 

“Janine Hawkins.” He said triumphantly, shaking the paper for emphasis.

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, very good.” He grabbed the slip from John’s hands, and their fingers brushed as he did so. A spark not unlike that of an electrical shock travelled up John’s arm. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, forehead creasing into a frown. “Did you not get the address?”

“No.” John admitted, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock sighed, but didn’t complain. Instead he patted John offhandedly on the shoulder and yanked him back out of the coffee shop and into the crowded station. “We’re going to be late for meeting Sally."

"We're meeting up with her?" John stopped, confused. “She was the one who brought us the case!”

"We need to find out Janine's address.”

“And you think she’ll know it?” 

“Matter of probability, John.” John continued to look blank. “She’s a student, and with little money on hand she’s buying as a gesture of moral support.” His nose wrinkled. “Why I don’t entirely understand-” He stopped mid-sentence at the frown on John’s face. “She knew Pietro, most likely she knew Sally.”

"And if not I suppose she'll know someone who knows." John surmised, nodding. "Okay."  
\--  
“Janine?” If Sally’s eyebrows had risen any higher, they’d have vanished into her voluminous hair. “Why do you need to know her address?”

“Trust us.” Sherlock looked impatient, foot jiggling, but he still achieved a remarkably calm expression. “Then we can bring justice to his killer." John nearly snorted at the fake sincerity, but it seemed to be having an effect.  
"I just don't understand how Janine could have been involved," Sally frowned. "She would never have killed him. She didn't even know him that well..." Sally trailed off, confused. “I’m taking Criminology and this kind of thing never came up-”

“No no no.” Sherlock assured her, foot tapping the floor increasingly quickly. John could tell he just wanted to get on with things. He put his hand on Sherlock’s knee as subtly as he could, trying to get him to stay still for two bloody seconds. It worked. “We just have to cover all the bases.”

“Of course.” Sally nodded, seemingly more to herself than to the duo. "I think I know which halls she's staying in." She pulled out her phone and tapped something in, bringing up a map of the surrounding area.

"Here," She bent over her phone, examining the tiny map. After a moment she straightened, shook her hair out of her face, and pointed at a cluster of buildings. "She has a shared room on here- room 31. If you ask around, someone there'll know where that is.”

“Thank you for your time.” John smiled, then followed Sherlock out of the room.  
\--  
“A Shared room?” John hissed. “How on earth are we meant to get in there?”

"It's Friday evening. No self-respecting student will be in their room."

"You hope. Not all students like to party, you know." He smirked, trying to imagine Sherlock as a college student. 

“Trust me. They will be out tonight.”  
\--  
Sherlock was right. Reluctant as John may have been to concede to this, Sherlock had flawlessly spotted tells among the student body- tells of a big party. And of course Janine Hawkins and her roommate Mary Morstan were headed out to attend.

Thankfully this meant that the halls were mercifully empty. Sherlock and John had entered earlier on as guests, with the pretence of staying over with a cousin of Sherlock’s. Since then they’d hidden out in the men’s bathroom.

Once everyone had headed out, they’d snuck out and over to the girls section and room 31. Sherlock jimmied the lock and they were in.

It was cleaner than John had expected, beds made, textbooks stacked, and computer screens dark. There were clear signs of preparation for the night in the clothes piled on the nightstand, and the open tubes of makeup. It smelled of perfume. Strongly.

The clay bust of Margaret Thatcher stood on top of the wardrobe, and John pointed at it. Sherlock nodded. 

“So what do we do until the thief gets here?”

"We need to find a good hiding place. I don't know when he'll turn up."

John glanced around. There didn't seem to be much in the way of hiding places. Other than the furniture, the room was almost empty.

Sherlock was also scanning the room in vain. "Um- the curtains?"

The curtains were short and navy blue. "They'll never hide us," John said. He stepped behind them to prove his point. They barely came down to his knees and he made an obvious bulge in the fabric.

"Oh."

"What about the wardrobe?" John asked.

"One wardrobe between two girls? It'll be stuffed to the brim. There's no way we'll fit."

"True," John said, pulling closed the doors, "but they've just left to go to a party. The thief won’t think twice if the floor is covered in clothes."

Sherlock grinned as John started pulling clothing out of the wardrobe and flinging it across the floor. He reached in to help, grabbing some jeans and draping them artistically across one of the beds.

When about half of the clothes were left I'm the wardrobe, John climbed in and reached out a hand to help Sherlock. They each pulled down some of the remaining clothing to make a comfortable surface to perch on as they waited.

John pulled the door shut and they sat there, knees brushing, in total darkness.  
\--  
An hour later all of John’s joints had fallen asleep and he was beginning to find the feathery ticklishness of the feather boa by his head very distracting.

“Sherlock-” he whispered, only to find Sherlock’s hand over his mouth. He could barely see his friend in the darkness, but the light was enough for him to see Sherlock putting a finger to his lips.

John nodded slightly. He stretched out his legs as far as he could and both knees gave a satisfying clunk as they straightened.

Suddenly he felt Sherlock's hand on his leg and drew in a sharp breath. He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Silence," Sherlock mouthed.

John became aware of how loudly he was breathing and consciously tried to quieten it. Sherlock noticed and caught his eye in the gloom, smiling.

John smiled back, deliberately not looking down at his knee. Almost automatically he put his hand on top of Sherlock’s, unsure precisely why, but unable to stop himself nonetheless. 

There was absolute silence from Sherlock. Not even a breath disturbed the air around where he sat. John could feel his ears going red and his face was warm. He made to pull back his hand, because you don’t just hold your best friend’s hand like that, but Sherlock stopped him, gripping tighter. It was too dark for John to properly discern Sherlock’s expression.

Something creaked outside the wardrobe and the boys hastily let go of one another’s hands. Sherlock peered through the tiny space between door and wardrobe and towards the window, where a man was just climbing through. 

He was dressed in jeans and a navy blue t-shirt proclaiming his taste for “Sting”. His hair was hidden under a baseball cap, the shadow cast by the peak obscuring his face. Sherlock hissed in a breath, drawing John further back into the wardrobe, and pointing up towards the top of it. 

_The bust._ He mouthed. 

John frowned quizzically. 

_It’s on top of the wardrobe._

Just then the wardrobe wobbled, and John heard the unmistakable sound of a chair being shoved up against it. 

John sucked in a breath- for the second time in only a few minutes- and desperately tried to cover himself in some of the leftover clothes. If the thief did open the wardrobe, then he’d hopefully not see them.

But the door didn’t open, and, after a few moments and some heavy grunting, they heard the chair get pulled away from the door. John moved to open it but Sherlock pulled him back. 

“Wait a minute.” Sherlock breathed. John shivered slightly, but nodded. They crouched for a few minutes in awkward silence until Sherlock leaned forward- nearly toppling out of the wardrobe in the process- and the door swung open with a gentle push.

There was no one in the room, but the window was ajar, the curtains flapping in a cool breeze. Sherlock peered out the window and beckoned John over. “There.” he pointed, and John followed his gaze to a see a figure sprinting across the courtyard.

“Okay.” John squared his shoulders. “Let’s go get him.”  
\---

Apparently the endless lap running before rugby practice had helped, because John easily kept up with Sherlock as they raced across the grounds after the thief.

“Come on John!” Sherlock yelled as they rounded the corner. The figure who had, moments ago, been just ahead, had disappeared. John skidded to a stop, his head whipping from side to side and he searched for the thief.

After a second he saw him, on his knees by the hedgerow, holding the bust. John tapped Sherlock on the shoulder, gesturing towards the thief. After a moment, Sherlock nodded, and they both approached him.

They were only about ten metres away when the figure spotted them and skittered, as if unable to decide whether or not to run. Instead he raised the bust above his head and threw it at a nearby tree. The bust struck it and broke in half, landing on the turf with a thump and then a clang as smaller fragments broke off. 

Before he had a chance to do anything more than reach out for the broken bust, John and Sherlock were on him. “Beppo Rovito.” Sherlock said conversationally, holding out a hand. “I believe we’ve met.”

Beppo seemed to deflate at Sherlock’s words, pulling off his baseball cap to reveal a browned face, with grey eyes staring stubbornly out of it. Sherlock pulled his scarf off and wrapped it gingerly around the remains of the bust. A knife fell out of the remains, and Sherlock picked that up too.

“Genius.” he muttered. “But not quite smart enough.” Beppo was silent. “This is more than enough to convict you, you know.”

John knelt down beside Beppo. “Why did you do it?” 

“We were having an argument.” Beppo whispered. “It got out of hand, and I stabbed ‘im. I saw that the busts were about to go on the kiln, and I thought I could hide the knife there and no one would find out.” 

John got to his feet and pulled out his mobile, leaving Sherlock to listen to Beppo. He dialed 999 and waited. After a moment a male voice answered, asking him what service he required.

“Police car. By the river in the grounds of the University of London.”  
\--

The sirens, although loud, were apparently not enough to wake all the students, accustomed as they were to the regular night traffic of London. Once Beppo confessed, and Sherlock handed over the broken bust and the bloodstained knife, the police were all too happy to bundle their murderer into the police car and off to Scotland yard.

One officer stayed behind. He came up behind Sherlock and John as they watched the police car’s flashing blue lights disappear into the distance, placing a steady hand on each of their shoulders.

“Boys.”

They turned to see him, a fairly short man with dark hair, who was clearly in the police force despite his lack of police uniform.

“Uh, hi.” John stuck out a hand for him to shake. “John Watson. And this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Detective Inspector Malcolm Taylor. And I know who you are.”

“You were helping out on the case?” John asked conversationally, unsure why the officer was still present.

“Not the murder case, no.” The inspector frowned. “I’ve spent my afternoon chasing you two round the country.”

John looked away from the D.I. Taylor’s disappointed expression, red-faced. Sherlock didn’t seem even remotely abashed. 

“I’m sorry. I am so so sorry-” John started, but trailed off when saw Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. 

“I hope you can even begin to understand the amount of chaos you’ve created. What do you think you’re playing at? Suddenly disappearing off to London in the middle of a fire drill?”

Neither of the boys answered. John stared at his feet while Sherlock inspected the tendons in the back of his hand.

“You know they sent in firemen to look for you. Thank goodness your classmate James Moriarty had seen you sneaking off or we’d still be searching for you.” 

“You were still searching for us.” Sherlock commented without looking up. John stepped on his foot, earning an elbow in the ribs for his efforts.

“Only because we managed to trace your phones. Otherwise we’d have no idea where to search for you,” Inspector Taylor stressed. “What if something had happened?”

John looked up briefly at Inspector and swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, boys. What you did was unspeakably dangerous.”

“I did leave clues. If you’d really wanted to find us all you had to do was check the dorm bin. The train ticket receipt was in there.” Sherlock said, sounding almost chagrined. “I printed it out for that specific purpose. If only you’d been competent enough to know where to look.”

D.I. Taylor’s mouth tightened, and he grabbed both boys by the shoulder. “Sergeant Portis will take you boys back to school.” Once they were both seated in the backseat of the nearest police cruiser, D.I. Taylor leaned his elbow on the roof of the car and bent down.

“Now don’t you ever do anything like that again.” He said sternly. And with that he slammed the door.  
\--

Sherlock hadn’t spoken for the entire journey back to school.

John wanted to break the silence, but he didn’t know what to say. Anyway, Sherlock appeared to be lost deep in thought and he didn’t want to interrupt. Even the police officer seemed unnerved by the lack of conversation, and after a few minutes, turned down his music.

“You boys okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” John nodded absently, watching Sherlock anxiously.

“I’m just not used to my juvenile escorts being so well behaved,” he chuckled, then caught John’s eye in the rear view mirror. “ You know the Head’s gonna want to see you guys when you get in. They called your parents.”

This seemed to get Sherlock’s attention. He snorted. “My parents won’t be showing up, so unless they think they can get Myc-” Sherlock went silent and his face drained of colour. 

After a second John caught on. “Shit.”  
\--

“Well I think you boys’ll understand why I’m giving you a full month’s detention.” The Head said matter-of-factly, hands folded and resting on his desk. “You should be thankful I’m not suspending you both.” John breathed a sigh of relief. “As it is I’ve called in your parents, and they both want to have a word with you.”

John’s shoulders slumped in resignation. Sherlock looked mildly stunned. The Head turned to face Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, your parents were unavailable, so we’ve called in your big brother.” 

John would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious; Sherlock’s expression of horror was almost comical.  
\--

“Sherlock, I don’t want to have to deal with another of your episodes this year.” Mycroft said smoothly, disappointment evident in his tone. It sounded more like an order than a request. “You don’t have to prove yourself like this.”

“We solved the case, Mycroft!” Sherlock argued. “Scotland Yard was out of its depth, as they so often are, and we solved a murder for them.” Mycroft seemed like he was about to reprimand him- it was an expression Sherlock found irritatingly familiar, but he pressed on. “They couldn’t do it. I don’t understand why we’re being punished.”

“You’re an idiot, Sherlock.” Mycroft frowned. “It was dangerous. You could have been killed- or worse, expelled.” He shuddered.

“They needed my help.” Sherlock said stubbornly.

“But they didn’t want it.”  
\--- 

John leaned back against the wall, feet dangling off the side of his bed. Sherlock sat cross-legged beside him, fingers steepled and brushing his lips. “Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“I guess we won’t be doing that again.” He knew he sounded insincere even to himself.

Sherlock smirked. “This isn’t going to haunt you, John.” Their dorm was empty, everyone else out at sports practice, or at lessons, which they were to rejoin after lunch. It was silent, but it was companionable. Sherlock brought his hands down to rest on the bed. “You’re going to miss this.”

John smiled, just a little. “So we’ll be doing this again.” It wasn’t really a question of if; it was a question of when. “Promise me we will.”

Sherlock smiled back. “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We apologise for the delay on this chapter- both Holmes and (Not Quite) Watson have been rather occupied with cases of their own…. Plus it doesn't help that we were a bit low on days in which we could meet in cafes, drink tea, and write. Forgive us for this Human Error.


	5. Year Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds himself with a dog and has to try and find away around the school's strict "No Pets" rule and all it involves. With John's help, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. We're so, so sorry. We thought we were resourceful. Enigmatic. Dynamic. But it turns out we're just late. This chapter is a bit longer than usual (read: 12,000 words). Enjoy!

It was the barking of a dog that distracted Sherlock from his thoughts. He’d been wondering whether or not Mrs. Hudson would mind if he disabled the school’s alarm system by sticking the control panel in the fridge with a few choice chemicals. The dog that came racing up to where he sat, patiently awaiting the arrival of the black chevy that would bring John Watson, was entirely unexpected.

It was an Irish Setter, maybe four years old- three and a half at least- with a friendly bark and no bite. It sat down in front of him when it noticed Sherlock’s interested gaze, wagging its tail excitedly.

“Hello, boy. What are you doing here?” He asked softly. The dog licked his hand and Sherlock smiled.

A man in a tan jacket ran over, panting and calling out “Redbeard!” at the top of his voice. He skidded to a stop when he saw Sherlock. “Oh.” He wheezed, pointing weakly at the dog before bending over, hands on his knees. “Redbeard likes you.”

Seeing that it would be ineffectual to either affirm or deny this fact, Sherlock remained silent. 

“You wouldn’t be willing to take him, would you?” The man asked hopefully, clipping a lead onto Redbeard’s collar. “It’s just, no one seems to want him and it’d be a shame to have to put him down.”

“What do you mean, ‘take him’?”

The man gestured to an embroidered logo on his fleece. “I work at the cat and dog home just outside Grimpen. Redbeard has been with us for months already, but he never seems to get on with anyone who comes looking for a pet. In fact, I think you’re the first person he’s approached since we’ve taken him in.”

Sherlock looked up, doing his best to appear neutral. Years of experience with Mycroft and his penchant for unusual cake mixtures had taught him to observe and obtain information first. “Why would you put him down?”

Redbeard seemed to sense the topic and clambered up onto the bench to burrow into Sherlock’s coat. Almost absentmindedly Sherlock began to card his fingers through Redbeard’s fur.

“We can’t keep them forever. We have so many dogs, and it’s expensive to keep them all. Plus, Redbeard can’t be walked with the other dogs. He fights with some of them.” The man’s face creased into a frown.

“And you’d let me take him?”

“Well, I don’t see why not. Of course, you’d need your parents to come in as well- I can’t just give you a dog. And there are some things you’d need to buy as well.”

Sherlock’s mind was racing. There was no way his parents would let him get a dog, but he could keep one at school, couldn’t he? Not in the dormitory, of course, but there were some small buildings out the back of the school that were never used…

“Um, actually, my parents were already thinking of adopting a dog from you. We were going to come in and have a look next week. They said I could choose one.”

“Really?” The man smiled warmly. “That’s a coincidence. But the problem is that by next week, Redbeard will technically have gone over his time. I won’t be able to keep him for you unless your parents have signed to say you’re definitely adopting him. Can you get them to come down later today?”

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably on the bench, causing Redbeard to lick his hand comfortingly. “They’re away at the moment.”

The man’s face fell. “That’s a shame. Poor Redbeard… I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”

“What if you let me take him now? I’ve had dogs before,” Sherlock lied. “If something goes wrong, I’ll bring him back to the centre. It’s worth a try.”

The man paused uncertainly. “I’m not allowed to do that.”

“Please.” Sherlock was begging now. “You can’t let him die just because my parents weren’t here to sign a stupid form.”

“I know, I know… But I don’t make the rules. I could be fired if someone finds out I’ve let you adopt a dog without parental consent.”

“No one has to know.” Sherlock and Redbeard stared up at the man, equally wide-eyed and pleading.

“I can’t risk it.”

“Your job is more important than his life?” Sherlock frowned. Redbeard snorted and shook his head, agreeing with Sherlock.

The man fiddled with Redbeard’s lead and didn’t answer.

“All you have to do is let me fill in the adoption papers. I can just miss out the fact that I’m not old enough yet.”

“I suppose- how old are you? Fourteen? You have to be sixteen to legally adopt a pet.”

“I can pass for sixteen.” Sherlock assured him confidently. “It’ll be fine.”  
\--

It took John an entire hour to find Sherlock. He hadn’t been in the chemistry labs, setting up experiments before the beginning of classes- which was the first place John had thought to check. But neither had he been in their dorm, playing the violin he’d got last year loud enough to draw irritation from parents dropping off their kids.

When he eventually found Sherlock, his friend was covered in mud and rolling around at the side of the lake with a dog. It was an Irish Setter, one that might once have been red before it had commenced whatever game the two were playing.

The dog spotted John and froze. The pair eyed each other for a second.

“Redbeard…” Sherlock said quietly, reaching out a hand. Before he could touch Redbeard’s flank the dog had leapt at John and knocked him over. John landed in the mud, blinking and trying to remain upright as the overexcited hound licked his face.

“You have a dog?” John asked when he finally managed to sit up.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied shortly, shifting slightly as Redbeard collapsed on top of his legs. “Since this morning.” John’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t comment, choosing only to look back up at the school and then back at Redbeard. His meaning was clear. “I’ll be keeping him in the woods.” 

“Right.” John laughed. “Because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that idea.”

Sherlock frowned. He stood up and brushed some of the mud off his clothes. “There isn’t.” He picked Redbeard up, wrinkling his nose at the smell, and carried him over to the side of the river. “In you go boy!” 

He dropped Redbeard on the bank and gave him a slight shove to encourage him into the water. The dog dug in his heels, staring at the water with a stubborn distasteful expression, as if it were personally offensive to him. Sherlock sighed and, to John’s everlasting amusement, shoved Redbeard in.

The dog yelped, paws splashing the water frantically until he figured out it was shallow enough for him to stand up in. Sherlock grinned and kicked off his shoes, then jumped in- trousers and all.

John allowed himself to be entertained for a moment.

“Where exactly are you going to keep him, Sherlock?” He questioned, mentally running through a list of places they _couldn’t_ keep him. The dorm was out of the question- until year eleven they shared with four other boys, and it would be pretty hard to keep an Irish setter a secret from all of them. There weren’t going to be any empty classrooms this year, not since they had exchange students coming from their partner school in York. 

“There are some abandoned buildings out by the edge of the forest.” Sherlock grabbed Redbeard and started to scrub his head free of mud. “They were P.E. storerooms in the 90s. They should suit our purposes.”

John gaped at Sherlock for a moment. “How do you know about them?” 

“I got bored.” Sherlock answered, as if that explained everything. He beckoned John over and deposited a sodden mass of fur into John’s arms. John recoiled at the smell of wet dog, gingerly setting Redbeard down on the grass in order to help Sherlock- equally drenched- out of the lake.

“So you’re just going to leave him there? What if someone sees him?”

“You never even knew the buildings were there. I doubt anyone takes it upon themselves to monitor them,” Sherlock pointed out. “I have enough money to buy his food, and I can walk him after school.”

John grimaced, unconvinced. “Are you going to explain how you managed to procure a dog between your train arriving and me getting here?”

“It’s not important.” Sherlock said, shoving his wet feet into his shoes. “What is important is whether or not you have a bobby pin.”  
\--

“You are so very lucky Harry’s bobby pins end up everywhere.” John hissed, trying to keep a hold on Redbeard. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and continued to jimmy at the lock of the small building. At that Redbeard began to make funny yelping noises and John looked nervously over his shoulder, hoping they weren’t going to attract any unwanted attention.

Finally the bobby pin clicked and the door opened. Redbeard stopped yelping in favour of barging into the building, stirring up dust as he went. Sherlock entered behind him and John followed, coughing and waving his hand around to try and clear the dust from the air he was trying to breathe.

They discovered Redbeard curled up in a pile of old sports bibs in neon colours. John flicked the light-switch and was pleased to discover it still worked. “It’s a bit dusty to just _leave_ him here, isn’t it?” John asked hesitantly, running a finger over a desk. It came away grey.

“Nonsense.” Sherlock said cheerfully. “It’ll be fine.” Bobby pin in hand, Sherlock walked over to the metal wardrobe in the corner of the room and set to work on the lock. “You forget, John, that these rooms belonged to the P.E. department.” He pulled open the doors and an assortment of balls, hoops, and ropes fell out. 

Redbeard’s ears perked up, interested. He nosed a ball that had rolled over to his makeshift bed and barked. Sherlock grinned. “See? Fine.”  
\--

John made Sherlock open a window before they left Redbeard behind in the storeroom. Even so, he spent the first dinner back at school worrying about whether the air would be too dusty for the dog.

“We should go and check on him,” John suggested when they finally got out of the cafeteria.

“That’s what I was going to suggest. He’ll need let out by now,” Sherlock agreed. He grinned at John and made off down the corridor, pausing only to check that no one else was following them.

Thankfully, the storeroom wasn’t too far from the school building. When they got there, Redbeard was still curled up on the sports bibs, but he got up, stretching and wagging his tail, as Sherlock pushed open the door.

John inhaled deeply. “It’s a bit less dusty in here now,” he commented. “We should probably clean it anyway.”

Sherlock was busy trying to find something that would function as a lead. Redbeard already had a collar, with a tag detailing the rescue centre, but the closest Sherlock could find to a lead was a sort of sash that looked like an older version of the football bibs.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“We need to clean this place up before we take him on a walk. It can’t be good for him to breathe in all this dust.” John caught Sherlock’s eye.

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed, realising that John was being serious. “Where do we start?”

\--

It was the best part of an hour later when the boys stood outside the storeroom, shaking dirt out of two disused towels for the last time. The building was considerably less dusty than it had been- even the tops of the wardrobes were clean- and John had discovered an old sink in the corner that had been previously covered by junk. After a good wipe, he had declared it ‘good enough’ to fill Redbeard’s water bowl, and it had also been useful for washing the floor tiles.

The interior of the building wasn’t exactly aesthetic, but at least it was safe now. Redbeard seemed much happier curled up in the pile of fabric now it didn’t smell of moth-eaten curtains.

“We’d better not take long on this walk,” John said. “They’ll be wondering where we are soon.”

Sherlock shrugged. “They won’t care. We’re in year ten now.”

“I suppose,” John agreed.

\--  
It wasn’t until the weekend that the boys got a chance to take Redbeard out for anything longer than a half-hour jog. John had made Sherlock promise to go out for a walk in the woods by the edge of the campus on the Saturday, and so they did.

Redbeard was very excitable, tugging at their makeshift leash and sniffing at absolutely everything. They walked for the better part of an hour, John moaning about the humidity and Sherlock about the lack of anything to chase- well, anything other than Redbeard, and Redbeard was chasing a stick.

Eventually they came upon a chain-link fence, about ten feet high and, according to Sherlock, electric. Beyond it was a huge field, dark and empty, with a building in the distant end. At a glance, it looked abandoned, but when inspected more closely it was obvious that someone was taking care of it. 

Curious, Sherlock lead them down the side of the fence, keeping an eye out for a sign of some sort. About a hundred metres from where they’d originally encountered the fence, they found one. 

CAUTION: ELECTRIC FENCE  
PROPERTY OF THE BASKERVILLE FACILITIES  
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT  
SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN

“Baskerville?” John turned to face Sherlock.

“Yes.” Sherlock murmured, temporarily letting go of Redbeard’s lead in order to reach out a hand and touch the sign. “ _Baskerville_.”

John shifted. He picked up Redbeard’s lead from where it had fallen. When Sherlock still didn’t speak again, John prompted him. “You know it?”

Sherlock shook his head and reached out his hand. For a moment John thought perhaps he was asking for them to hold hands. He almost laughed at the idea, absentmindedly running his tongue over his lips as he handed over Redbeard’s lead. 

“The game is-”

“On.” John finished, huffing out a quiet breath. Sherlock continued to stare at the building, lit up by light from a few small windows, without any sign of intention to move. After a minute Redbeard got restless, pulling at the lead, and so John grabbed Sherlock’s coat by the lapels and began to drag him back towards the storerooms.

By the time they entered the school again it was dark. It was lucky it was the weekend because there was no way John was going to be able to stay awake and functioning long enough to do homework.

Exhausted, John fell asleep almost instantly, watching the boy curled up on the window seat with a bemused expression. John didn’t doubt for a minute he’d still be in the exact same position when John got up next morning.  
\--

“We’ll be experimenting with the effects of weight on gravity and speed.” Professor Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright announced, twirling a paper aeroplane. “You’ll all be writing a short investigation on the subject.”

Sherlock, as was his custom in most of his lessons, looked bored. He was more exasperated than usual though, as the weekend’s attempts to research “Baskerville” had proved unsuccessful. 

Beyond the urban myths that declared it to be all manner of things from a British “Area 51” to a containment facility for all the mad scientists, there seemed to be nothing concrete on the site. Even a combination of google and Sherlock’s hacking skills had failed to turn up anything interesting. In the eyes of the internet, it didn’t exist.

Arthur Shappey, Professor Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright’s son, raised his hand. He was not an intelligent boy, and his pointless questions had frustrated Sherlock on countless occasions. “Mu- Professor,” he began, fiddling with one of the paper aeroplanes he always seemed to be making, “How can we do this experiment when no one really knows why planes fly?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. Professor Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright sighed, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Sherlock. She was one of the few professors Sherlock could stomach- they had bonded over a shared irritation at Arthur’s silliness.

“Arthur,” Mrs. Knapp-Shappey-Shipright began patiently, “We do _know_ how planes fly.”  
\--

Thirty minutes, some intense annoyance on the class’ part, and a bout of shouting of Sherlock’s later, they finally left the subject. The experiment had been set as homework seeing as they had run out of time during the lesson.

Unusually enough, Sherlock raised his hand. The Professor’s eyebrows shot up, disappearing into her hair. “Yes?” 

Sherlock leaned forward, propping his elbows on his desk, fingers steepled. “What can you tell me about Baskerville?” He asked, eyes narrowing. He had confided in John once, a rare display of vulnerability, saying that he liked to watch people for “tells”. People tended to display tiny characteristics when asked questions, reactions to what they had been asked that made it easy to tell if they spoke the truth or not.

“Baskerville?” Professor Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright looked nonplussed. “Why in heaven’s name would you ask about that place?” 

“For Science.” Sherlock replied simply, flashing a small smile.

The Professor groaned but didn’t turn him down. She set down her whiteboard pen and shot a glance at the clock on the wall. “Baskerville is a government facility.” Several classmates looked up in interest. “What they get up to there is undisclosed and, quite frankly, none of our business. Class dismissed.”  
\--

“You didn’t have to be so… direct.” John muttered as they made their way to the lunch hall.

“There’s nothing wrong with being direct. People are idiots. They need everything laid out as clearly as possible.”

“Not all people.” John corrected. He was beginning to get annoyed with Sherlock assuming that everyone was stupid until proven otherwise.

“Most.” Sherlock said grudgingly. “Anyway, it’s not like we can get in trouble for asking.”

“No, but people will be suspicious now.” 

Sherlock was about to argue with this when a boy caught his eye and gestured for them to join him at the edge of the corridor, out of the main flow of people. The boy checked that no one was listening before he spoke.

“Why were you asking about Baskerville?” He asked. John gave Sherlock an ‘I told you’ look, which was ignored.

“We were curious. Do you know anything?”

“I might.” The boy gave them a curious stare. “It depends.”

Now that John had had a chance to get a proper look at the boy, he realised that he recognised him from their science class- Simon? Simon Stapleton, that was it. They hadn’t really spoken until now, despite having been in the same class for three years.

“On what does it depend?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

“I need a favour.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance; Sherlock’s eyes were glinting excitedly and John was looking vaguely dubious.

“A favour?” The bell rang for lunch and another rush of people appeared in in the corridor, forcing them to move closer to the lockers. “What sort of favour?”

Simon looked nervously up the hall then pressed a piece of paper into Sherlock’s hand. “Everything you need is on there.” he whispered, shouldering his school bag. “Let me know.”  
\--

Sherlock steered John towards a table at the edge of the lunch hall, ignoring John’s protests about being hungry. “We have a case John!” Sherlock called over the din. “Eating isn’t important.”

John grumbled but didn’t object. 

Five minutes later, however, when Sherlock had neither said anything nor given John any chance to take a look at the paper, he felt obliged to prompt him. “Sherlock?” 

“I asked for a case.” Sherlock moaned, getting up and shoving his chair back in place with enough force to knock it over.

“Isn’t this a case?” John panted, trying to catch up with his friend. He grabbed the paper from Sherlock’s hand and uncrumpled it.   
Before he could read it, Sherlock snatched it back. “Dear Sherlock Holmes,” he said mockingly. “I can’t find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please can you help me!”

“Bluebell?” John asked, trying unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the note.

“A rabbit, John!”

“A rabbit?”

Sherlock banged through the door into the dormitory, crumpling the sheet and throwing it in the general direction of the window. He collapsed on John’s bed, drawing his knees up to his chest and inhaling deeply.

John grabbed the note and scanned it briefly. “Her mum works at Baskerville,” he noted with interest. “Maybe there _is_ something going on there.”

Sherlock grunted, shooting him an annoyed look and reaching one hand out to grab his violin from the end of the bed.

“It’s a case, Sherlock.” John reminded him. “Any connection with Baskerville is worth investigating.”

“So the rabbit died and the mum hid it to avoid darling Kirsty getting upset,” Sherlock said angrily between staccato plucks of his violin. “I’m going to go and visit Redbeard.”

He got up and, packet of dog-food in hand, stormed out the door. He paused in the doorway. “Bring Cluedo.”

John sighed, stuffing the note into his pocket. He reluctantly followed his mad detective out of the building, Cluedo box under his arm.  
\--

Sherlock chose to be Professor Plum and John decided on Colonel Mustard. Redbeard eyed the board with curious eyes, nosing Miss Scarlet over and into the Hall. John dealt out the cards, leaving a few over so it wouldn’t be immediately obvious which cards he had stuck into the envelope.

He outlined the rules briefly, then rolled the dice. 

\--  
“Can I take Miss Scarlet in for questioning?” 

“No.”  
\--

“Why are you investigating the knife John? If it had been the murder weapon there would have been clear bloodstains and there’s nowhere they could conceivably have hidden soiled clothing.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and play.”  
\--

“Alright.” John announced about an hour later, affectionately shoving Redbeard off the board. “I accuse Professor Plum, with the knife, in the Library.” He reached for the envelope and pulled out the cards. “I’m right!”

Sherlock looked positively horrified. “I am _not_ the murderer.” He insisted, throwing his cards down. “I can’t be the murderer. Why would I be investigating my own crime if I was the murderer?” 

“Worked for Hannibal.” John muttered.

“John, why are you comparing me to a militaristic leader who trekked across the Alps?” Sherlock stared at John in genuine bewilderment.

John was unable to speak for a minute after that.

Sherlock wasn’t finished. “It was obviously suicide!” He cried. “It’s the only possible solution. There are no clear escapes and if everyone was actually trying to discover who did it to such detail then one player would be giving out false information and since you disallowed interrogation-”

John found his voice then. “It’s not in the rules.”

“Well then the rules are WRONG.” Sherlock shouted, overturning the board, much to Redbeard’s surprise. The small plastic figure that was Professor Plum sailed through the window, followed shortly by the knife.

“Well,” John said, stroking Redbeard “since there’s no way we’re going to be playing that again, I suggest we go back up to the school.”  
\--

For a time they forgot about Baskerville, and continued their routine of Redbeard, lessons, homework and Redbeard again.

That was until, midway through an English lesson, Counselor Pitt-Goddard opened the door with a grin and asked for Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock got up, looking unperturbed. 

“Chris?” Professor Richardson called.

“Yes?”

“You might want to take Mr. Holmes’ boyfriend with you.”

“Who?” Counselor Pitt-Goddard looked confused for a second, but then he smiled. “Yes, I suppose John Watson should probably come too.”

John got up, feeling the eyes of the entire class on him. “I’m not gay.” He said, as much to himself as to the rest of the students. Then he followed Sherlock and the Counselor out, blushing furiously.  
\--

Professor Harkness, head of Key Stage 4, was waiting for them in his office with an all-too-familiar red setter. “Boys!” he greeted them cheerfully, apparently oblivious to their despair. “Professor Jack Harkness. Hi.”

“Don’t flirt with the students, Harkness.”

“I only said hi!”

“For you, that’s flirting.” Pitt-Goddard raised an eyebrow.

“Okay.” Harkness winked at Chris. “Hi.”

John cleared his throat. “Good afternoon.”

“Oh yes,” Harkness turned back to face them. “Sherlock Holmes, we found your dog.” He sat on the edge of his desk and eyed the pair. “You know you can’t keep him.”

“He’s not my dog.” Sherlock said unconvincingly.

“Really?” Professor Harkness smirked. “Well I guess there must be another Sherlock Holmes who engraved his name on the ‘please return to’ plate.”

John knelt down beside Redbeard and inspected the collar. He heard Sherlock mutter “Idiot.” under his breath, but ignored him. “What are you going to do with him?” For once John heard genuine concern in his friend’s voice. 

“Return him to the rescue, I expect.” Harkness shrugged. “I suppose I ought to punish you as well, but you were only trying to save a life.”

Chris made a disappointed noise. “Can’t you let them keep him?”

“No.”  
\--

The man in the tan jacket shook his head when he saw Professor Harkness and Counselor Pitt-Goddard enter the rescue centre with Redbeard.

“We’ve come to bring him back.” Professor Harkness said sadly, pulling Redbeard in. He was cowering a little, and making yelping noises. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry but we can’t take him back.”

“What? Why not?” Counselor Pitt-Goddard questioned, irritated.

“We don’t have the space.”

“What do you expect us to do with him?” The man in the tan jacket shrugged. They stared at him expectantly until he sighed, picked up a deerskin suitcase and opened it. He drew out a form, squinting at the tiny print.

“We’ve had workers from Baskerville- you know, the government facility just outside Grimpen?- round here a lot recently looking for unwanted animals. I can give you their number, if you want.”  
\--

John pushed away his physics homework. It was too hard to concentrate with Sherlock sulking on his bed, sighing periodically. He’d attempted to persuade Sherlock to come down to their common room with him, but his only response had been a scornful look and silence.

“That's it. We’re going back to see Professor Harkness.”

“Mmhh?” Sherlock mumbled unintelligibly into John’s pillow. 

John walked over to the lanky figure and grabbed him by the shoulders, yanking him to his feet. Sherlock was now a good few inches taller than him, but his gangly physique meant that it wasn’t too difficult for John to lift him. Sherlock slid onto the floor with a grunt.

“We can ask what happened to Redbeard. I’m not going to put up with you moping around-”

“‘Moping’? I’m not ‘moping’.” Sherlock said under his breath.

“ _Moping_ ,” John continued stubbornly, “any longer. We’re going to go and see Harkness.”  
\--

“I’m sorry boys,” Harkness said, “I don’t really remember anything- just a man in a tan jacket with a deerskin suitcase.”  
\--

The rescue centre was almost deserted when they finally got there, early in the afternoon. There was no one at the desk, but they could hear footsteps upstairs. 

“Hello?” John hollered. “Is anybody there?”

There was a chorus of meowing and yelping, along with some other unidentifiable animalistic noises. After a moment, they heard the creak of the stairs as a figure appeared.

It was the man in the tan jacket, carrying a bedraggled cat which looked like it had lost a fight with a hairdryer. 

“Ah, you again! I see having a dog didn’t turn out very well.”

John looked away, embarrassed. Sherlock, however, had no such qualms. “What happened to him?” The man in the tan jacket put the cat down on the counter and wiped his cat-hair covered hands off on his jeans. For a moment he eyed Sherlock and John with interest and something akin to disappointment, then he picked a flyer up off the surface and handed it to John.

“Baskerville.” The man said simply. He picked the cat up again and went back up the stairs. “They took Redbeard to Baskerville.”

John glanced at the sheet of paper. The words “animal testing” jumped out at him immediately and his stomach lurched even as he shoved the flyer at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s mouth tightened and his eyes hardened. “John.” He said, sounding almost like he was choking back tears. “John, we have to get him.” And with that he stormed out of the centre.

John stared after him in open-mouthed shock. Sherlock, who held facts over emotion, who held more interest in the committer of a crime than in those who got hurt, was so human. He’d noticed changes since their first year, but this was something else entirely.  
\--  
“Sherlock, it’s okay to be emotional.”

“Go away.”  
\--

“Sherlock-”

“Unless you know a way into Baskerville, shut it.”  
\--

“Sherlock.”

“...”

“Sherlock?”

“...”

“Sherlock, I think we should ask Jim Moriarty for help.”  
\--

Jim Moriarty had grown since John last saw him. He’d gone from chubby school-boy to stocky year seven to gangly teenager. His black hair no longer stuck up in all directions, he had slicked it back neatly.

“How can I help you?” 

Jim’s school uniform was immaculate, and he watched John eat with mild interest. Sherlock seemed irritated at this, and cleared his throat. 

“I need to get into Baskerville.”

A wide smile split Jim’s face, and he shuffled his chair in a little closer. The cafeteria was loud, with many conversations to hide theirs, but still he leant over the stained surface and whispered.

“I can do that.” His Irish accent was somehow more pronounced when he spoke in such a low register, his i’s distorted and long. “It’ll cost you though.” 

John put down his fork and frowned. “We were friends, Jim.” he reminded him. But that had been a long time ago. Somewhere between their last year of Key Stage One and their first year of Secondary their emails and meet-ups had faded into nothing. The two little boys who’d sat on the swings and promise never to hurt each other had gone their separate ways.

“Once upon a time...” Jim said mockingly, something dangerous flashing almost imperceptibly in his eyes. John’s face fell, and he took another bite of his lasagna in an effort to seem unconcerned. Jim smirked and repeated himself. “It’ll cost you.”

Sherlock could see his friend was going to protest again. He let out an exasperated huff and placed a hand over John’s mouth. Jim’s eyes followed Sherlock’s hand, mouth tightening almost imperceptibly. “What- Ow!”

John had bitten Sherlock’s finger. “Don’t.” he said warningly.

Sherlock glared at him, then turned back to Jim Moriarty, who stilled grinned infuriatingly. “What will it cost?”

“We’ll see.” Jim said, voice infuriatingly smug. “Wait until after I get you in.”  
\--

Half an hour before they were scheduled to break into Baskerville, John was a nervous wreck. He’d reread the same sentence in his English book- they were reading “Lord of the Flies”- five or six times and it just hadn’t registered.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had been tearing through his trunk in search of something to wear. For some unaccountable reason he seemed to have an endless store of disguises in with his ordinary clothes- everything from a bright traffic-controllers vest to a policeman’s hat. And John hadn’t even wanted to know where he had got them.

Eventually he settled on a purple shirt with suit trousers and blazer, his long black coat shrugged on over the top. John hadn’t changed out his school uniform; he had taken off the tie, but the navy trousers and white shirt remained.

“You ready?” Sherlock asked. With a sigh of relief, John closed his book and stood up.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”  
\--

The curriculum for Year Ten IT was based around web design. John had spent the lessons setting up his own blog and beginning to recount his and Sherlocks’ numerous adventures. Sherlock had set up a website on which to chronicle his study on different types of tobacco ash. Jim, meanwhile, had spent his scheduled time in the computer labs trying- and succeeding- to hack into MI5’s website.

The best part was they didn’t even seem to know he’d done it. They weren’t tracking him- a little fact he knew because he’d hacked that database as well. Jim counted it as a little victory. The first of many.

It was still indescribably satisfying when the back gate to Baskerville opened with a click and Sherlock and John walked in.

“I’ve fed the cameras a loop- you’ll be fine.”

Jim waited outside the gate for a moment, watching John and Sherlock disappearing round the corner of a building, and admiring his own genius. Not many fourteen-year-olds could gain access to a secure government facility.

Of course, he’d had his reasons. As he turned to walk back to the school- he didn’t particularly want to become involved in whatever John and Sherlock had planned- he thought of the price they would have to pay when they returned. Assuming they didn’t get caught and arrested, that was, but Jim had faith in Sherlock’s competence and trusted that he would keep John safe.

Jim grinned. Everything was going to work out fine.  
\--

John edged around the main building, following Sherlock as closely as possible. His heart was racing, but despite that he couldn’t help but smile. He was enjoying himself. 

The corridors were clinically white, and empty. They passed no one. Every so often Sherlock would stop and pull John to the side of the passage so he could peer through the window of a room. 

Sherlock turned right, then left, then left again. John had just turned the corner too when Sherlock darted back, breath hissing through his teeth. Two scientists, white lab coats and goggles, were walking down the hall, deep in conversation. 

For a nanosecond John stood, paralysed in their path. They hadn’t seen him yet. Then he felt a hand take his and Sherlock yanked him round the corner and out of sight. 

“We should split up.” John mumbled. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes.” Sherlock breathed. “Meet me at the gates.”

John nodded and took a deep breath. He moved to take the left corridor, but stopped when he realized Sherlock was still holding his hand.

“Don’t get caught.”  
\--

It was a good thing that Sherlock’s memory was near faultless, because the corridors of Baskerville were almost identical and not clearly mapped out. Each hall had exactly the same number of doors, the same number of which had windows as didn’t. And each of which didn’t hold Redbeard.

Eventually he entered a room- Jim had also ‘forged’ them keycards- and found it full of cages. Every cage had a few animals in it- mostly simians, although they were a few rabbits- and a clipboard detailing the progress of their experimentation.

Footsteps sounded and Sherlock rushed to close the door, freezing in terror when he realized the light was a motion sensor. He ducked down and immobilized himself as he waited for the person to pass.

She paused- sound of the footsteps, tread and frequency all suggested that it was a tall woman- and opened the door just enough to key her card in and shut down the lights. The door closed again.

Sherlock hurried down the centre aisle, glancing into each cage he passed. The animals cowered as they heard his footsteps, some of them even scrambling to get to the back of their cages. His stomach filled with an unfamiliar twisted sense. _Horror. Disgust_. He catalogued them for later inspection and stubbornly continued to search for the red-haired dog.

There! A flash of colour had caught his eye at the end of the aisle, and he ran towards it. As he got closer, he could just about make out the shape of the Irish Setter pressed up against the bars of the cage. 

Sherlock skidded to a halt right beside the cage. It was definitely Redbeard, but not as he’d last seen him… Even in the shadows he could tell that the dog had lost a lot of weight since he’d last seen him. His coat was dull, but his eyes were shining as he recognised that it was Sherlock who had come to rescue him. 

“Redbeard… Shh!” Sherlock tried in vain to calm the dog down. At the sight of Sherlock he’d bounded to his feet, energetic as ever, and had begun to jump up against the bars, trying to reach him. His tail was wagging like mad, hitting noisily off the metal sides of the cage.

Eventually the bolt slid across and Sherlock yanked the door open. Redbeard rocketed out, and Sherlock half expected him to try to escape from the room, but instead he jumped up to put his paws on the boy’s chest and proceeded to give him a thorough licking.

Sherlock pushed him down, laughing, but even as he did so he felt the dog’s ribs under his fingers. What had they done to him? He pushed away the rush of anger, instead crouching down and wrapping his arms round Redbeard’s neck. 

He buried his face in Redbeard’s long fur for a few precious seconds. Redbeard leaned into him, tail still wagging, as if he sensed and shared Sherlock’s relief at being reunited. He could have stayed like that forever, lost in the warm, soft feeling, but his mind was still racing with the urgency of his mission.

“Come on, boy.” Redbeard followed him back along the aisle and, after pausing to check that the coast was clear, into the endless maze of corridors.

Thankfully, they didn’t come across anyone. Redbeard’s claws clicked against the white tile every time he took a step, making it impossible to move around silently. It was difficult for Sherlock to keep control of the dog, listen out for people, and navigate through the building all at once. It was even harder when he tried to keep an eye out for John.  
\--

Every single room so far had been dogless. And still John pressed on, determined to find the excitable canine he had come to love. He paused in front of a door, frowning. All the doors were so similar it made it difficult to remember if he’d checked the room or not. Occasionally there would be a small sign outside with the lab name, or a room number, but those weren’t helpful.

John keyed the lock and slipped inside. He guided the door into the jamb, making its closing as quiet as he could. Then he turned round to see two security guards, munching on doughnuts and drinking coffee, watching him.

“Sorry to interrupt.” He said weakly, then tugged at the door. Before he could even open it fully there was a firm hand on his shoulder.

“And who might you be?”  
\--

Sherlock glanced back up at the gates for what seemed like the thousandth time. He was sitting less than ten metres away from them, but still they were lost in the gradually thickening fog. 

There was still no sign of John.

Redbeard whimpered, nosing Sherlock’s stomach from where he was, curled up in his lap. He was anxious to get away from the Baskerville facility and back to the home the boys had made him in the school grounds. The longer they waited, the more the knot in Sherlock’s chest grew.

His thoughts were punctuated with flashes of imagined scenes; things that could have happened to the dog while he had been in Baskerville. A faceless human, a needle, Redbeard cowering into a wall… He pushed them away, feeling slightly ill, and tried to focus on John.

Where was he? There hadn’t been that many rooms to check, and Sherlock had made it very clear that if he hadn’t found anything in half an hour he should return to their meeting place by the gates.

If he hadn’t turned up by now, something must be wrong.

“I’ll be back soon, Redbeard.” Sherlock got up from his position leaning against a damp tree and patted the dog’s side. “Stay.”

Redbeard rested his head down on the forest floor and watched his owner disappearing into the fog.

\--  
It was painfully obvious that the two beefy security guards were attempting some form of “Good Cop, Bad Cop”.

“Have a cup of tea,” the taller one with the bristly moustache said gently. He sat himself down opposite John at the small table. “Why don’t you tell us your name?”

“Why would I do that?” John stared stony-faced at the guard who had spoken. He sipped his tea, staring into the brown liquid, mind racing. The tea was hot, but calming. 

“It’s probably in your best interests,” The second one snarled. “You don’t want to make this worse than it already is.”

Still John remained stubbornly silent, hand curled around his mug, drinking every few seconds. “If you explain why you’re here we can let you go,” the taller guard cajoled. “We’re not the bad guys.”

John laughed into his tea despite himself. Wiping away tea from his upper lip with his free hand he set the mug down on the table. “You do know how cliched you sound, right?”

“What do you mean?” The first guard frowned. “Whether you like it or not, we’ve got to keep you here. It’s our job.”

“Also, it’s not every day a kid breaks into a top-security government facility. Alone. Why’d you do it? Feel sorry for the little fluffy bunnies?”

“You are alone, right?”

Something bubbled up inside John: a resounding urge just to tell them. To explain about Redbeard and how he and Sherlock had kept him a secret in the grounds for weeks, how much it had hurt to let him go and find out he was in _Baskerville_ of all places. He may not normally have been one for spilling his guts, but the interested audience made it ever so tempting to tell all- right down to how he felt about Sh-

“Kiddo?” Moustache said. “You alright?”

John set down his tea, hand shaking imperceptibly, just enough to make the liquid quiver inside the cup. “Yeah. I’m fine. Everything’s… fine.”

Suddenly the lights went out; it left the small, windowless room in total darkness. The security guards froze for a moment, then pulled out torches and headed for the door. “Stay.” The shorter of the two commanded, shining the beam in his face. “Here.”

The moment the door closed John leapt to his feet. After ten seconds- each of which felt like it lasted an age- he headed out as well.

Amazingly, the door was unlocked. He supposed that the entire building had lost power, meaning that the doors locks- controlled by key cards- would automatically disengage. 

With the lights all out and only the dim red emergency lamps still on, the corridors were lit a surreal kind of pink. John retraced his steps as well as he could, all the while keeping an eye out for his curly-haired best friend.

Suddenly he heard hurried footsteps up ahead. He pressed himself into the wall, thankful that he wasn’t under a security lighting, and held his breath as the figure came into view.

“...Sherlock?” He hissed.

“John. Hurry. There are guards everywhere.”

John nodded. Sherlock turned on his heels and took off back the way he’d come, and John followed as closely as he could.

He tried to keep track of the corridors as they took lefts and rights and rights and lefts. After a while he just let Sherlock lead.

“How much furth-” John’s urgent whisper was cut off as Sherlock suddenly shoved him against the wall. They stood, chest to chest, for a long second. John was about to ask what on earth Sherlock thought he was doing when one of the security guards walked past. 

Sherlock didn’t move even as the security guard disappeared, and John looked up- Sherlock had grown again- to maybe mumble something about moving. But then Sherlock puffed out a little breath onto John’s face and he froze.

There were approximately two inches between their mouths.

John tried very hard not to think about how much he wanted those two inches to be no inches at all. That peculiar feeling from beforehand- that urge to just say everything on his mind- bubbled up again and John squeezed his eyes closed in an effort to quell it.

“John?” Sherlock breathed. His eyes shot open in time to watch Sherlock pull away, looking worried. Mouth dry, John nodded and followed Sherlock along the corridor. 

They had just slipped past the guard booth when John noticed how very locked the gates were.

“Problem,” John said.

“That might be a bit of an issue, yes.” Sherlock briefly scanned the surrounding area. There weren’t any staff members in sight, not even in the guard booth. Not yet, anyway.

John, meanwhile, stepped up to the gates and gave them a heavy shove. They barely moved under his hand. “We could try… climbing them.” He suggested, despite the fact that they consisted only of vertical bars which reached far higher than he could.

“No. There’s got to be something; some way out.” Sherlock glanced around again, searching for some way they could escape. A low-frequency buzz indicated that the electric fence was still running. It was controlled by a separate switch, but where would that be…?

“There!” John called. The switch, built into a box on their side of the fence, was labeled in large print with a black and yellow stripy tape border.

“That was surprisingly easy to find.” Sherlock watched as John hit the switch. The fence whined for a second and then powered down.

“I suppose they’re keeping people out, not in.” John said. “Although they do make it stupidly difficult to escape.”

Sherlock grinned into the darkness. “Not difficult enough.”

He beckoned for John to follow him round the back of the guard booth, where a half-filled skip was pushed up against the outside wall. Sherlock jumped, grabbed the rim of the skip with both hands, and scrambled up until he was perched on the side. From there, he took a gigantic step onto the roof of the guard booth.

John clambered up onto the rim of the skip, then looked up at Sherlock dubiously. “I don’t have ridiculously long legs, remember?”

“That’s not my fault.” Sherlock huffed, reaching out a hand nevertheless. John hoisted himself onto the rooftop just as there was a sound below.

Before either of them had quite processed what was going on, they were flat on their stomachs, pressed against the cold tiles. There was a slight shift in the building as the door slammed shut and a torch beam swept up towards them.

“Hello?” A rough voice shouted. “Is anybody up there?”

John silently let out a breath and flattened himself as much as he possibly could.

After a moment the owner of the voice seemed to decide that there wasn’t anyone on the roof, and he walked away. John gasped in a breath and scrambled backwards. 

“Now what?” he asked irritably, brushing bits of roofing off his shirt.

“Now,” Sherlock said, voice further away than a moment ago. “We jump.” John looked up, open mouthed, just in time to see Sherlock leap from the edge of the roof into a large oak tree on the other side of the compound’s fence.

John stood up, fists clenched in determination. The fence rose slightly higher than the guard booth, and the oak tree was a good metre from it. For a moment he waited, watching Sherlock leap down from the tree with the agility of a cat, then sucked in a breath and sprang.

He cleared the fence, although he was convinced he had felt the cold metal graze his bare ankle. With a face full of leaves, he landed clumsily in the oak tree, heart beating wildly as his hands flailed for holds. 

Sherlock smiled up at him from the ground and John couldn’t help but return the gesture. When the familiar red coat of Redbeard trotted into view, his smile grew into a full-blown grin. “Hello, boy.” He called in a hushed tone, waving to attract their dog’s attention.

John climbed down to the last branch and prepared to jump. Just as he was about to let go of the branch, a sudden feeling of nausea came over him and he wobbled, trying to stabilise himself on the tree trunk. It was further away than he had judged. “Sher-” he started, but then he was falling.

Luckily the ground was a mere metre away, and John only saw an assortment of scrapes and bruises littering his knees and hands when he stood up. Sherlock glanced at him and grimaced. “We’ll have to go see Mrs. Hudson then.” He said conversationally. John nodded mutely as the sickness began to subside.

Sherlock clipped Redbeard to his lead and the trio began to pick their way through the forest towards school.

They had barely gone ten paces when John stumbled. “I think there was something in my drink.” 

“John? What’s wrong?” There was genuine concern in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I don’t feel right. I don’t know why; I can’t quite place it, but…” John trailed off, unsure how to word what he was trying to say.

“What?”

“When I was in there, with the security guards, it was like… I wanted to tell them everything. I wanted to tell them about you and Redbeard and the testing and why we’d broken in. Even though I knew that I couldn’t, I nearly explained all of it.”

“Did you eat or drink something in there?” Sherlock asked, tugging on Redbeard’s lead so he could inspect John closely. “Did you touch anything?”

John’s nose crinkled as he thought back. “The security guards gave me tea…”

“Something in the tea?” Sherlock’s lips pursed in what looked like anger, but it was masked in a second. He started walking again. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted, following Sherlock and his dog. “It did occur to me.”

There was a sudden gust of wind and John pulled his hands up into his jacket sleeves, shivering. Sherlock noticed and picked up the pace a little. In only a few minutes they had dropped Redbeard off at the hut in the grounds and were on their way to the school. They walked in silence. John tried to work out what Sherlock was thinking, but his expression was unreadable.  
\--

They’d barely made it through the fire-door- Sherlock had disabled the alarm at the beginning of the year- before John felt himself being tugged down the corridors towards Mrs. Hudson’s infirmary. He stumbled after Sherlock, insisting all the while that they needn't tell anyone.

Sherlock ignored him.

Thanks to Sherlock’s incessant nagging, John ended up in one of the infirmary beds having blood taken. Mrs. Hudson knew enough about Sherlock to take him seriously when he said he thought someone was drugged. 

“I’ll be fine.” John promised, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling. Mrs. Hudson had disappeared to fetch the drug testing kit from the science labs, and the two boys were alone for a minute.

“Do you think it was truth serum?” Sherlock asked, and John started because Sherlock never asked for anyone’s opinion. “The likelihood of any given drug being detectable in the system after six hours is low, even with a blood test. Of course it’d be easier to make use of saliva testing, but since your adrenaline levels have-”

“I love you.” John blurted out suddenly. He clapped his hand over his mouth, almost as if he could capture the words back. _Oh nononononono_. He’d never meant to say that.

Sherlock was staring, mouth open, frozen in the middle of a deduction. John shuffled awkwardly in the bed, sitting up just enough to be able to shrink back if he needed to. “Sherlock?” he said tentatively. “I’m sorry-”

Sherlock still didn’t move. For once, his brain seemed to have powered down entirely.

_Well now I’ve ruined everything_. John closed his eyes and slumped back against the wall behind the bed, resigned. 

The bed creaked and John’s eyes shot open just in time to see Sherlock press his lips against his own. 

Harry had told him once that you should never open your eyes when you kiss someone. The emotion he saw in Sherlock’s, however, made it impossible to look away and close his. He felt Sherlock smile, and laughed, breaking away for a second.

In an display of entirely Sherlockian confidence, Sherlock followed John and captured his lips again. Not to be outdone, John slipped a hand into Sherlock’s messy curls, holding him in place. He felt all the tension leak out of him and he relaxed against Sherlock, leaning in, letting Sherlock support him.

Sherlock’s bony hands looped around John’s waist and he sighed against John’s lips. The action surprised him, and John opened his mouth. 

He was seriously considering granting Sherlock tongue access when he heard a squeal. “You boys are so cute!” He and Sherlock broke apart, blushing furiously. John blinked a few times before he realised it was Mrs. Hudson, and hastily looked away.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, then seemed to remember why they were in the infirmary in the first place. “And?” he asked her, surreptitiously slipping his hand under the covers to hold John’s. “What was in the tea?”

For a moment Mrs. Hudson looked like she thought the tea was a much less important topic than what she’d walked in on, but then she just clucked in a motherly way and shook her head. “Nothing, dear.”

“Then why did John… say that...”

“Say what?”

“Uhm, why did I want to tell the security guards everything?” John interrupted before Sherlock made the situation any worse.

Mrs Hudson frowned at them, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Truth serum, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock exclaimed

“Truth serum? There’s no such thing, Sherlock. Has Mycroft been telling you stories again?”

Sherlock looked away, possibly more embarrassed than he had been a moment ago.

“I expect what you’re describing was just the pressure,” Mrs. Hudson said kindly. “I get students in here at exam time every year without fail-” She stopped short when she saw the impatient look on Sherlock’s face. “John thought there was something in the tea, so he started acting accordingly. Like with those placebo tablets- you know the ones?”

John breathed a sigh of relief, still beet-red. Avoiding Sherlock’s knowing gaze, he hurriedly put his jumper back on and hopped off the bed.

Spotting their Sherlock’s concerned expression, Mrs Hudson stopped John and ushered him back to the bed, quieting his protests. “You boys have had quite a night, by the sounds of it. You can stay here until the morning. Don’t stay up too late, mind.” She stepped out of the infirmary, and John could have sworn she winked at him as she disappeared around the doorframe.

“So,” John said, eyeing the single infirmary bed. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Sherlock snorted, slipping off his coat and scarf. With a small smile he gestured for John to budge over before sliding under the covers beside him. 

Both of them shifted uncomfortably for a moment before Sherlock breathed out an exasperated sigh and pulled John down, winding his long arms around him as he had earlier. 

There was a long, uncomfortable silence while neither of them moved. Sherlock tried to muffle his breathing, which suddenly sounded ridiculously loud. He ended up holding his breath completely.

Eventually, John spoke, letting his air out in an even louder gasp. “So you really…?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock murmured.

“You feel… the same way?”

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock mumbled, “I think that’s been established- best friends don’t kiss each other.” 

John rolled over and burrowed his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “I can never tell with you.” He whispered, yawning. After a second, Sherlock’s arms tightened around him and John grinned, closing his eyes.  
\---

When John blinked himself awake next morning, it was to find himself irrevocably tangled up with a certain detective of his. For a moment he allowed himself to just lie there, breathing in time with Sherlock, but eventually the position became unbearable.

With his free hand he reached over and gently shook Sherlock awake. “Rise and shine.” John said, smiling. Sherlock seemed to disagree and burrowed back under the covers, clutching John’s jumper in an attempt to keep him in bed too.

“We need to ‘pay’ Jim.” Sherlock’s said, voice muffled by the sheets.

John frowned and sat up. “Did he ever set a payment?” He glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. It read just after noon. “More importantly did he expect us before lunch?”

Sherlock groaned and, throwing the covers aside, got out of bed. The boys had both slept in their clothes, and Sherlock straightened first his shirt and then John’s before they left the infirmary, pausing only to kiss John lightly on the forehead.

\--  
The cafeteria was full to bursting, and the line for food stretched nearly to the entrance. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scanned the queue of people, then marched right to the front and stopped beside a tall boy with a vacant look in his eyes.

“Henry,” Sherlock tapped the boy on the shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Mind if we cut in?”  
\--

Jim was sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, sipping a cup of tea and typing furiously on his mobile. The table had other boys sitting at it, but Jim didn’t seem to want to talk to any of them. Then a tall boy sat down beside him- Moran or something, someone John recognized him from rugby and instinctively flinched away from.

Sherlock pulled out the chair opposite Jim and plonked himself down in it. John stood awkwardly for a moment, then went and fetched a chair from a neighbouring table so he could have a seat too.

“Hello.” Jim said cheerfully, setting his tea down and picking up an apple. “What can I do for you boys?” 

John remembered vaguely that Jim could make deductions, and his roving eyes made him want to shrink back. Something about John’s face seemed to fascinate him, and he smirked. 

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted, “What do we-” his face twisted into a distasteful smile- “Owe you for helping us out with retrieving Redbeard last night?”

At that Jim’s smirk seemed to grow even more pronounced. He started carving at the apple with his pocket knife, looking as if he were considering all manner of things he could ask for. 

“Nothing.” He said finally, setting the apple down. “It was an interesting test to my skills, and I consider it a favour.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “A favour?”

“You’re welcome,” Jim replied, flicking the pocket knife closed and taking a bite out of the apple. He shot a look at Moran, who raised his eyebrows in response to some silent question. Jim smiled and got up. “Well, I’d better be off.”

Moran stood up too and followed Jim out of the room. He flashed John a grin as they stepped out of the cafeteria, something that didn’t quite come across as friendly.

John turned back to Sherlock. “What did you think of that?”

Sherlock shrugged, fiddling with a chunk of bread. “I don’t know.” He looked up at John earnestly. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Mmm,” John mumbled in agreement.  
\--

As soon as lunch was over, John and Sherlock tried to visit Redbeard. They had dropped him off in the P.E storeroom again on their way back the night before, and Sherlock was anxious to see how he was doing.

They hadn’t even made it out the front door when an annoying Prefect from the year above- Phillip Anderson- caught them and sent them back to their dorms.

“Don’t talk out loud.” Sherlock spat at Anderson as they headed back down the corridor. “You lower the I.Q. of the entire school.”

After a moment John spoke up. “You sure it was a good idea putting Redbeard back where we had him before?” He fingered the dog food he’d had in his pocket for Redbeard. “You know, they might check there.”

Sherlock kicked open the door to their room. “Course they won’t- they don’t think we’d be smart enough to get him back or stupid enough to put him in exactly the same place.”

John threw himself down on the bed beside Sherlock and pulled out his English homework. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He muttered, half to himself.

“Because you’re an idiot.” Indignant, John glared at Sherlock, pen paused halfway through writing the date. Sherlock caught his eye and sighed. “Don’t take it like that- practically everyone is.”

“Particularly you.” John smiled, leaning forward. At John’s words Sherlock had glanced up, looking just as indignant as John had a minute before, only to feel John drop a kiss on his forehead. “Lets go tonight.”  
\--

Curfew for all years on a school night was ten o’clock. At half past ten though, two boys were sneaking through the corridors, hand in hand. They ran as quietly as they could, Sherlock on the eye out for teachers and Prefects and John on the look-out for places to hide should they encounter anyone.

Of course he couldn’t quite resist pulling Sherlock into divots in the walls and kissing him senseless when the need presented itself, but they still made it out the door without encountering anyone.  
\--

Redbeard was curled up on his newly reconstructed bed, head resting listlessly on the floor. Usually he roused himself when the boys arrived and would throw himself at them, barking loudly. He didn’t do anything more than whine when they made their entrance, and John noticed that the food and water they’d hurriedly provided the night before lay untouched.

“Hey boy,” Sherlock said, bending down and stroking Redbeard’s fluffy ears. “What’s wrong?” 

With his free hand he nudged the food closer to Redbeard, who showed no interest at all. 

Cautiously John knelt down beside Sherlock and patted Redbeard’s flank. Redbeard flinched, butting John’s arm with his nose. John drew back.

“Sherlock, I think Redbeard’s ill.” John said. There was a short pause while Sherlock considered this, then nodded his agreement and stood up. 

“We’ll have to take him to the man at the centre.”   
\--

John had taken some persuading to agree to go back to the dog home. He hadn’t been keen to risk Redbeard being discovered again, especially seeing as there would certainly be a punishment the second time round. “It’s probably just something small,” he had argued. “He’ll get better soon.”

However, after three long days, Redbeard was still getting steadily weaker. He barely looked up when they entered the shed, and spent most of the time sleeping. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was going the opposite way. Every time they went to visit the dog- which seemed to be in every spare moment the boys had- he was getting more and more anxious.

When they visited Redbeard on Monday night, it was to find him yelping and nursing what appeared to be a burst blood vessel in his leg- at least that was what they agreed it had to be. 

At that, John had agreed that he needed to be seen by a vet, but Sherlock was twitchy and highly irritable.

“We’ll go on Saturday, okay?” John told him. He was attempting to stop Redbeard bleeding and placate Sherlock at the same time, and was finding it a bit difficult. 

“That’s too far away!” Sherlock protested, gesturing wildly with his arms. “If he continues to deteriorate at this rate, we’re going to have to carry him all the way to Grimpen!”

John considered this. “I don’t see how we really have a choice.”

“Tomorrow morning. We have PSHCE and double German. Du kannst die Arbeit später machen, oder?”

John caught the desperate glint in Sherlock’s eye and reluctantly nodded. “Fine. But you’re going to have to think up one very good excuse.”  
\--

“Professor Harkness? I’m going to need the morning off tomorrow.”

“Hmm?” The professor glanced up to see the two boys approaching his desk.

“My parents are in town and I want to introduce them to my boyfriend.” Sherlock said bluntly, gesturing to John.

John’s jaw dropped and he stepped away from Sherlock, beet red. “ _Sherlock!_ ” he hissed, eyeing Harkness nervously. “ _Is now the time?_ ”

Harkness, however, was grinning. “Always knew there was something going on between you two,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a devilish grin. “I must say Watson, you’ve got yourself a good-looking one.” 

If it was possible, John seemed to flush an even deeper red and stammered out his thanks in an incoherent jumble of sounds.

“So can we have the afternoon off?” Sherlock pressed, linking his and John’s fingers in what John recognised as nervous anticipation.

For a moment Harkness considered the request, before shrugging noncommittally. Then he laughed. “Why not?” he said, American twang suddenly very pronounced. “Good luck, boys.”

Sherlock smirked in John’s direction, then tugged him out of Harkness’ office with a brief “Thank you Captain” on their way.

Before they’d even got half-way back to their dormitory John had to stop and laugh. Sherlock looked utterly confused for a moment. “Are you alright?” He questioned, looking uncharacteristically worried. 

“Don’t ever spring something like that on me again.” John warned, then stood on his tiptoes to press a feather-light kiss to Sherlock’s nose, which crinkled at the unexpected touch.

“What? It worked!” Sherlock protested. “And you are my boyfriend.”

John snorted. “Yeah,” he said fondly, leading Sherlock back to their dorm, “But that’s not how most people introduce the term.”

He had to struggle not to chuckle at the lack of comprehension on Sherlock’s features. “Oh go on you great clot,” he grinned, pushing Sherlock towards his own bed, “do some homework.”

“Not a clot.” Sherlock insisted, flopping onto John’s bed. He moved up a little and John threw himself down beside him, german books in hand. 

“Now,” John said, snuggling down a bit so his head could rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, “what’s the you plural form of gehen?”  
\--

John was awoken the next morning by the obnoxious beeping of his alarm. Groggy with sleep, he reached over and batted half-heartedly at the snooze button so as not to wake the other boys.

Sherlock, of course, was already awake and dressed. When he saw John had woken he tossed over a set of John’s non-uniform clothes. “We leave in five minutes.” Sherlock said briskly. “Hurry.”  
\--

By the time they actually left the school, walking out side-by-side, with John eating a hasty breakfast in form of a muffin, the first class had already begun. 

They ended up having to carry Redbeard, who was in an even worse state than the previous day. Weak was not a strong enough word to describe his limpness, and he was hot to the touch. Fortunately- although not for Redbeard’s health- he hadn’t been eating, and so was easier to carry out of the P.E. hut and down into Grimpen.

Luckily, Sherlock hadn’t miscalculated how long it would take them to get there, and they arrived just as the man in the tan jacket opened the centre. “Hello!” John called nervously, desperately trying to recall the man’s name. “Excuse me!”

After a moment, the man turned around. His jaw dropped when he saw the boys and their dog, but then he just shook his head and smiled. “You two don’t give up easy, do you?” he chuckled, ushering them into the centre. “I bet you’re a handful up there at the school.”

Sherlock ignored this, and lowered Redbeard carefully onto the counter, knocking several boxes of forms of it in the process. He straightened and began reeling off Redbeard’s ‘symptoms’: “Since his… arranged return from Baskerville, his heart rate and temperature have increased significantly, he has developed a rash, and has been-" he hesitated, as if searching for the right word, "hem-orh-aging?"

"Hemorrhaging." John clarified, abruptly grateful for electing to help his uncle out at the hospital over the summer. 

The man in the tan jacket frowned and bent down to retrieve a colossal book from under his desk. "You see," he said, leafing through the massive volume, "that sounds an awful lot like Ebola."

John flinched at the term and felt Sherlock's hand tighten around his. " _Ebola?_ " Sherlock choked out, his other hand reaching out for Redbeard. "He was at Baskerville, not in Africa!"

Grimacing, the man closed the tome. "Do you not know why he was at Baskerville?" He asked carefully. The boys shook their heads. The man paused, unsure how to continue. "They wanted animals to test their cures on..."

John stared at Redbeard and realised how very stupid they had been. Baskerville- though they may have given him the disease- had been trying to cure him. And they had gone and taken him away. "How long-?"

"Depends." The man shrugged. "When did he start showing symptoms?"

Sherlock’s fingers tightened in Redbeard’s fur. “Four days ago.” 

The man let out a breath. “I’m sorry boys,” he said simply, “he’s got about three days.”

John closed his eyes. When he opened them, Sherlock had disappeared with Redbeard, and the door was banging shut behind him.  
\--

Four hours later, Sherlock stormed back into their dorm. He was soaking wet and dejected. John looked up as he came in, half hopeful. “No.” Sherlock growled out before he could voice his question, and threw his sodden jacket at John, whom it hit in the face. 

"What- what did they say?" John asked, shifting over on the bed to make room for his boyfriend. 

Sherlock sat down on the bed beside John, drew his legs up to his chest, and buried his face in John's shoulder. 

"Tomorrow morning." He said thickly. "They're going to put him down."

“What? Why? Can’t they try-”

Sherlock interrupted him before he could finish. “It was my choice.”  
John gaped at him, open-mouthed, then hesitantly placed an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” he said finally, voice shaking. _Redbeard’s going to die_ , he realised abruptly, and he sniffed in, blinking against rapidly-forming moisture in his eyes.

“What good does that do?” Sherlock asked him, pushing away from John. “What GOOD DOES THAT DO?” He was shouting by the end, voice breaking even as he screamed. Then he seemed to become boneless, slumping down into John’s lap.

“None.” John murmured, “None at all.”  
\--

Something had changed when John got up next morning- an absence of Sherlock’s usual warmth against his side. Sleepily, John stretched and threw back the covers. “Sherlock?” he called, struggling to remember which muscles he needed to actually get up. “Sherlock?”

“It’s a weakness, you know.” John started and squinted against the light streaming in from the curtains. Sherlock was standing by the window, looking out impassively with his hands behind his back.

“What is?” he got out eventually, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Sentiment.” Sherlock sounded out the word as if it were something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. He whirled round, suddenly animated, and began to gesture. “I’ve always feared that love would be a dangerous disadvantage. But I never thought I’d be as far gone as to let my heart rule my head.”

John sat up carefully, still in his pyjamas. “You really think that?” he asked quietly, getting up and going over to his- his boyfriend. “You do?”

For a moment Sherlock just stood there, shaking, and then he swallowed. “Promise me you’ll not let me do that again. Promise.”

John closed his eyes, squeezed them shut and took a deep breath. "Promise."


End file.
